


Into You Like a Train

by hannasus



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - No Island, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Learning Disabilities, Minor Barry Allen/Iris West, Minor Caitlin Snow/Ronnie Raymond - Freeform, Minor Sara Lance/Nyssa al Ghul, Past Drug Addiction, Recovery, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Social Media, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasus/pseuds/hannasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Movie Star AU written for the 2016 Olicity Fic Bang</p><p>Felicity Smoak’s only reservation about taking a job as script supervisor on John Diggle’s latest film is the lead actor: Oliver Queen. He’s a former teen heartthrob with a reputation for bad behavior and a messy drug habit that tanked his once-promising career. Now, five years after he disappeared off the Hollywood radar, Queen’s looking to make a comeback. But has he really cleaned up his act, or will his attitude problem make Felicity’s life a living hell for the nine-week shoot in New Orleans?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my Olicity Fic Bang artist hackergoddessfelicity, cheerleader the-silverforked-sky, and beta iamangstville! And extra special hugs to machaswicket, for holding my hand and talking me off the ledge more than a few times while I was writing this. 
> 
> This fic is complete (aside from some minor edits), and a new chapter will go up every Thursday. If you have questions about any of my tags or trigger warnings, feel free to leave a comment here or message me on Tumblr (I'm hannasus there, too) and I'll be happy to go into more detail.

“That’s lunch!” the first assistant director calls out, and Felicity hops down from her chair in front of the monitors and heads outside. It’s a beautiful, cloudless day in Los Angeles (just like almost every other Los Angeles day), and after hours cooped up inside a cavernous soundstage, the sudden plunge into the Southern California sunlight is wince-inducing. She slips her phone out of her pocket and ducks into the shadow of a nearby trailer to squint at the screen while her eyes adjust to the light.

She has three missed calls. Two from her mom— _ignore_ —and one from John Diggle. _Interesting_.

Diggle is a director Felicity has worked for a few times before, and if he’s calling her, there’s a good chance it’s because he has a job for her. Since he’s someone she actually _likes_ working with, and since she still hasn’t lined up her next script supervising job after this one wraps, she hits the callback button right away.

“Hey,” she says when Diggle answers. “You rang?”

“I did,” he replies genially. “How’s it going? You working right now?”

“For another few weeks, and then we’ll be wrapped, thank God.”

She cannot wait for this shoot to be over. The deadly combination of an inexperienced director and an unprofessional lead actress has turned this job into an ongoing nightmare. The endless production delays and budget overruns have the studio putting on the pressure, which means everyone’s stress levels are through the roof, tempers are running high, and the mood on set has degenerated from tense to downright despondent.

Diggle chuckles. “Not loving this gig, huh?”

“Don’t even get me started, because then I’ll never shut up. How’s the new baby?” The last time Felicity worked with Diggle, his wife, Lyla, was pregnant. She tries to remember from the birth announcement if they had a boy or a girl, but comes up blank. Too many people she works with have been having babies for her to possibly keep them all straight.

“Not so new anymore,” Diggle says. “She’s walking already.” _She,_ then, good to know.

“My God, how did she grow up so fast?” Felicity asks, struggling to remember her name. _Susan? Sophie?_ Shoot.

“Don’t ask me. Lyla keeps threatening to put a brick on her head to keep her from growing.”

“I don’t think that works.”

“You try telling that to Lyla.”

The tell-tale scuff of Uggs on pavement alerts Felicity to the approach of the lead actress she can’t stand. She glances up and attempts a smile as Miss Bad Attitude 2016 walks past on the way to her trailer. It’s a weak attempt, and all she gets in return is an eyeful of bitchface. Whatever. The end of this ordeal cannot come too soon.

“So, listen,” Diggle says, “I’m about to start a new project and I might have a job for you. You got anything lined up next?”

“Not yet,” Felicity says.

“How do you feel about New Orleans?”

She makes a face. “I feel like it’s hot and muggy there.”

“Not in the spring,” Diggle assures her. “Weather’s great in the spring. Best time to shoot down there.”

“What’s the project?” Felicity asks.

“Neo-noir thriller. Script’s by a kid named Cisco Ramon, supposed to be the next Shane Black. We’re looking at nine weeks of principal photography, starting in March.”

“Who’s in it?”

“Oliver Queen.”

Felicity snorts. “I thought he was dead.”

Ollie Queen was a breakout Disney Channel star who’d successfully navigated the transition from non-threatening tween heartthrob to hot, scruffy brooder to big-time box office star. Until a messy drug habit, a string of DUIs, and enough bad behavior to earn him his own episode of “E! True Hollywood Story” tanked his career. After he managed to get himself fired from the set of a Michael Bay production five years ago, Queen was blacklisted in Hollywood, and he dropped completely off the radar. Felicity swears she heard something about an overdose a couple years back, but maybe she’s mixing up her former child stars.

“Only figuratively,” Diggle says. “He’s looking to make a comeback.”

“And you’re the lucky director who gets to take a chance on the drug addict?”

“ _Recovering_ addict. He’s been working the program for a few years now, says he’s turned over a new leaf.”

“And you believe him?” Felicity asks, chewing on her bottom lip. Her job as script supervisor requires her to spend a lot of time interacting with the talent on set, and a bad apple can make her life a living hell for the duration of the shoot—like, for instance, the production she’s currently working on. She’s not eager to jump into another bad situation.

“I do,” Diggle says solemnly. “We’ve had a few meetings about the project, and so far everything I’ve seen tells me he’s in control and serious about the work. So what do you say? You available?”

One of the reasons Felicity likes working for Diggle is that she trusts him. He doesn’t go in for all that Hollywood bullshit—he tells it like it is, runs a professional set, and doesn’t tolerate prima donna behavior from his actors. If John Diggle says Ollie Queen is up to the job, that’s good enough for her.

“For you?” Felicity tells him. “Absolutely.”

***

A month later, Felicity is deep in pre-production on John Diggle’s next film, _Sunset Limited._

They’re two weeks out from the start of principal photography in New Orleans, and she’s sitting in on a camera department meeting to go over the types of the lenses they’re going to be using for the shoot. It’s real exciting stuff—if, by exciting, you mean mind-numbingly dull. But it’s a necessary evil, since she’s going to have to keep a log of all the camera angles, f-stops, and lenses used in each take for the editor to refer to during post-production.

Normally, these kind of meetings go pretty fast. Unfortunately, the cinematographer on this project, Martin Stein, has a tendency to be long-winded, especially when he gets caught up talking about the more technical aspects of his trade. Unchecked, the man can drone on about apertures and color temperatures for hours, and Diggle keeps having to nudge him back on task.

Felicity slumps over the conference table and cradles her chin in her hand as Stein goes off on yet another tangent, this time about the diopters on his cameras. He’s like one of those college professors who spends the whole class period rambling about some arcane detail without ever getting around to the material listed on the syllabus. She’s pretty sure she can actually feel her brain cells committing suicide out of boredom.

“Okay,” Diggle says finally, cutting Stein off after a couple of minutes. “I think we’ve got everything we needed today. Thanks, everybody.”

Stein presses his lips together in irritation, but the rest of the camera department are already sprinting for door, so he gathers his things together and follows them out of the conference room.

“Oh my _God,”_ Felicity groans when he’s out of earshot, and she and Diggle have the room to themselves.

“I know,” Diggle agrees, rubbing his temples. “But he’s a genius. I’m lucky to have him.”

It’s true. Stein can make a low-budget shoot look like a billion-dollar picture. And he isn’t so bad once the camera starts rolling. He can be a little fussy on set, but he gets the job done with impressive results.

“How have the rehearsals been going?” Felicity asks, shutting her laptop. Diggle likes to keep his rehearsals intimate and informal, hosting them at his house so the cast can get comfortable and work uninhibited.

“It’s looking good, but I’m meeting with the folks from the studio tomorrow to talk about some adjustments to the script. Now that I’ve seen what the actors can do, I want to refine the characters a little, maybe punch up the humor in a few places.”

“So what’s he like?” Felicity asks.

Diggle quirks an eyebrow at her. “Who?”

“Ollie Queen.” She missed the table read while she was finishing up her last job, so she hasn’t had a chance to take his measure yet herself. But the word around the office from the people who were there is that he was aloof and intense, barely talked to anyone, and didn’t smile at all.

“Man’s got a lot of talent. I think he’s going to be a great fit for the part.”

Diggle has an excellent poker face, but Felicity isn’t buying it. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

He gazes at her evenly. “Then ask me what you really want to ask me.”

“I want to know what he’s _like._ Should I brace myself for the worst?”

Diggle shrugs. “He’s not exactly warm and cuddly, but he’s focused on the work.”

“I know you’ve heard all the same stories I have …” Like how Queen once threw a chair at director in the middle of a temper tantrum. Or how he used to show up on set so high he couldn’t even say his lines—when he even bothered to show up at all.

“What do you want me to say, Felicity? I knew the risks when I signed on to work with the guy, but he says he’s cleaned up his act, and I’m choosing to believe him until I see something that proves otherwise. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, biting her lip. “It’s just, the schedule’s already tight, and I know the budget’s stretched to the max, so if he starts pulling that kind of crap again—”

“Hey,” Diggle says, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “It’s gonna be fine. That’s what the insurance is for.”

“So he _is_ insured? How’d you swing that?”

Big-budget films require insurance in the event an actor can’t finish a film for some reason, and Queen’s notorious on- and off-set misbehavior had marked him as too high risk to be insurable—which was the real reason he hadn’t been able to get work in five years.

Diggle glances at the doorway to make sure there isn’t anyone hanging around close enough to overhear. “You didn’t get this from me,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Obviously,” Felicity murmurs, leaning closer.

“Friend of his put up the bond out of his own pocket. And it wasn’t cheap, with his history.”

“Who?”

“Tommy Merlyn.”

“Wow. Okay, then.”

Tommy Merlyn and Ollie Queen came up through the Disney Channel together and used to run in the same pack of young Hollywood actors, charmingly nicknamed the “Snatch Squad,” but reportedly had a big falling-out when Merlyn started dating Queen’s former fiancée. If Tommy Merlyn is personally bankrolling Ollie Queen’s comeback, they’ve evidently patched things up.

“Must be nice to have a friend willing to risk a few mil to get you a job, huh?” Diggle says, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yeah,” Felicity agrees. “Must be.”

***

The following week, Felicity receives the first set of script revisions. She’s working at the cubicle they gave her in the production offices, wholly absorbed in the task of updating her script breakdowns to reflect the new pages, when she hears someone clear his throat next to her desk.

“Felicity Smoak?”

She spins her chair around and yanks the pen she was chewing on out of her mouth, because Ollie Queen himself is looming over her desk.

Felicity has met a lot of attractive actors in her line of work, and at this point she likes to think she’s pretty blasé about it, but _daaaamn._ Whatever the man has been doing with himself the last few years certainly agrees with him. He’s put on at least twenty pounds of pure muscle, and he has this stubble thing going on that is really working for him. The whole effect is just very … wow _._

“Hi. I’m Oliver Queen,” he announces unnecessarily.

“Of course,” she says, sitting up straighter. “I know who you are, you’re”—she gestures at his very recognizable face—“Ollie Queen.”

“Noooo,” he says, frowning. “Ollie was my Mouseketeer name.”

“Right. You’re not a Mouseketeer anymore. I mean, obviously, look at you, you’re way too old to be a Mouseketeer. Not that you’re old!” she amends quickly. “I wasn’t trying to say you were old, because you definitely are not.” _Oh my God,_ why can’t she just shut up? “You probably aren’t here to listen to me babble, either,” she mumbles, horrified, “which will end in three … two … one.”

The corner of Ollie— _Oliver’s_ mouth twitches slightly, and she can’t tell if it’s in amusement or irritation. “I wanted to introduce myself since we’re going to be working together for the next two months,” he says, pretending to ignore her embarrassing bout of word vomit. “I heard you were the best script supervisor in the business.”

Felicity narrows her eyes at him. “Really? Who told you that?” She knows Diggle respects her, but he’s not prone to that kind of hyperbole, and if someone is actually going around saying that about her, she wants to know who it is so she can send them a cookie bouquet.

Oliver’s face goes slack for a second as he flounders for an answer, clearly caught in a lie. “People?”

Felicity tilts her head to the side and gives him her patented _I am not buying what you are selling_ look.

He cracks the barest hint of a smile, and for a split second his whole face lights up. It’s easy to see why he was a star, because even just that glimmer of a smile is like staring into the sun. Like you could actually go blind from looking directly at him, or melt into a puddle of goo at his feet.

Which Felicity is definitely not doing, because she is immune to movie stars and their gorgeous smiles and their stupidly handsome faces.

“Anyway,” Oliver says, his expression shuttering, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Felicity says. “Likewise.”

There’s a pause long enough to make her start to squirm in her seat before he finally adds, without much enthusiasm, “I guess I’ll see you in New Orleans, then.”

“You definitely will,” she answers lamely.

Oliver Queen makes his escape from her presence, and Felicity slumps down over her desk and buries her face in her hands.

God, why is she the worst?

***

Felicity has been to New Orleans a handful of times before—for Mardi Gras once in college, for Jazz Fest a few years ago, and most recently last summer for an ill-advised bachelorette party that turned into a forced death march around the French Quarter in high heels. It’s always seemed like a nice enough place to visit as a tourist (French Quarter death marches with women she shouldn’t be friends with anymore aside), but she’s not sure what it’ll to be like to actually live there—or spend two months shooting on location.

To save money, the production is using mostly local talent—with the exception of a few key cast members and department heads—and instead of a hotel, Felicity is being put up in a rental house. The house the production company has assigned her to is in Audubon Park. Like, actually _on_ Audubon Park, it turns out when she gets there. Literally, her front yard opens directly onto the park, which is not too shabby.

The house is small, just a cozy one-bedroom cottage—unlike the sprawling edifice immediately next to hers, which looks like an actual, honest-to-God castle, complete with gray stone blocks, Gothic arches, and leaded glass windows. It looks like someplace Mr. Darcy should be living, basically.

The two houses were clearly built at the same time and share a lot of medieval architectural elements, only the castle is like eight times as large as Felicity’s little house, which is attached to the much larger structure. They’re actually adjoining, the travel coordinator warned Felicity, connected by an interior door in the wall between them. But there are secure locks on both sides, she assured Felicity in her email, so there’s no worry about uninvited visits from whoever happens to be renting the mansion next door.

It’s still a little weird, Felicity decides, eyeing the wooden door that opens onto her living room. The “secure lock” is nothing more than a simple slide bolt. But it’s probably fine. As long as the people next door aren’t total assholes. Or, you know, axe murderers.

And the rest of the house is pretty great. It’s fully furnished, and whoever did the decorating has a flair for mixing vintage and modern elements in a way that somehow manages to totally work alongside the Tudor-influenced architecture. Besides the combined living/dining area, there’s a kitchen/laundry room downstairs, and a bedroom, bathroom, and small office nook upstairs. Best of all, a pair of French doors in the bedroom open onto a gorgeous balcony overlooking the park.

Felicity drops her bags next to the bed and ventures out onto the balcony, inhaling a lungful of the balmy Louisiana air. It’s ridiculously lush and green here compared to Los Angeles. The whole park is ringed by century-old live oaks adorned with strands of Spanish moss that remind her of the Mardi Gras beads that festoon all the trees and street lamps along the parade routes through town. There’s a shady jogging trail that runs past her front yard, and the bright green lawn beyond the trees is covered with picnickers taking advantage of the pleasant spring weather.

 _Yeah, okay_. _Maybe this doesn’t suck too bad._

She spends the next couple of hours unpacking her bags and familiarizing herself with the house before hitting up the neighborhood Winn-Dixie for some groceries. When she gets back, there’s music coming from the castle next door—and not just any music, but, like, some truly God-awful speed metal. It’s still early in the evening, though, and she’s spent most of her life living in apartments and sharing walls, so she’s not going to grudge someone the right to listen to their terrible music at a completely reasonable hour of the day. Anyway, she can barely hear it when she turns the TV on, so it’s fine. Whatever.

By the time the time ten o’clock rolls around, the music has stopped. Hey, look at that, her neighbors are decently considerate. Hallelujah.

She stays up to watch “The Daily Show” and then gets into bed and spends some time reviewing the scenes they’re going to be shooting tomorrow. It’s the first day of principal photography, and she’s always anxious before her first day on a new set. She wants to make extra sure she’s prepared.

Which she is. She totally has this. It’s going to be fine, it always is.

What she _really_ needs to do is stop psyching herself out and try to get a decent night’s sleep. So after a half hour she makes herself close her laptop and turn out the light.

Felicity lies there in the unfamiliar bed and stares up at the swirly patterns in the plaster ceiling of the unfamiliar house. She’s not used to all the sounds of this strange new city at night. Living right on the park, she can hear crickets and frogs and an owl and—what even is that weird clicking sound? Jesus. Is that an insect? She probably doesn’t want to know.

The sheets on the bed are scratchy, and her skin feels irritated and hyper-sensitive. It’s possible she’s allergic to the laundry detergent. Or maybe it’s the air. The whole city is basically covered in mold, and God only knows what kinds of weird plants they have here. Just her luck, she’s probably allergic to the entire state of Louisiana.

The mattress on the bed is too firm, and it kind of slants to one side, which makes her feel like she’s in persistent danger of rolling onto the floor. Also, there’s a weird smell in the refrigerator, the water pressure is abysmal, and the light in the bathroom flickers when you first turn it on.

What if the local crew doesn’t know how to do their jobs? What if none of the cast know their lines? What if she screws something up and lets everybody down?

She wonders if maybe she should pull up Google Maps and double-check the directions to the sound stages one more time. Just to make sure she knows how to get there. Just in case.

_No. Stop thinking. Just relax and go to sleep._

Which is when the speed metal starts up again next door. Even louder than before.

_Seriously?_

Felicity rolls over and reaches for her phone to check the time. 11:48. On a weeknight.

Oh, _hell_ no.

She gets up and drags a hoodie on over her T-shirt before she stomps downstairs and bangs on the door adjoining the house next door.

After a moment, she hears the slide of the bolt on the other side of the door. And then it opens and—

It’s Oliver Queen.

 _Shit._ Oliver Queen is living in the house next door.

The production must have rented the two houses together. And obviously the giant mansion would go to the big-name star, and the much smaller cottage to a lowly crew member.

Which is why Oliver Queen is standing in front of her in nothing but a pair of loose-fitting gray athletic shorts. He’s covered in sweat and breathing heavily, and _oh God,_ she really hopes he was exercising and not doing … other things.

Felicity swallows and forces herself to look at his face and not at his chest. Or his arms. Or his abs. All of which are glistening and perfectly sculpted, like he’s just stepped off the cover of _Men’s Health._ “Um, do you think you could turn the music down?” she asks him.

“What?” he says, frowning at her. A bead of sweat trickles from his hairline down to his attractively bushy eyebrow, and he reaches up to wipe it away with his forearm.

“The music,” she says a little louder. “Could you turn it down?”

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, sure.” He fishes his phone out of pocket and taps the screen. The music abruptly shuts off. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was living next door.”

“Well, I am,” she says.

It’s impossible to tell from his expression if he recognizes her, because his face doesn’t actually _have_ any expression. He’s just staring at her sort of blankly. She could introduce herself again, she supposes, but it’s late, and she’s not in the mood for chit chat, and if he doesn’t recognize her that’s his problem. He’ll figure it out soon enough.

“Thanks,” she says. “Goodnight.” And then she pulls the door closed on him and shoots the bolt home.

Felicity goes back upstairs and gets into bed. If she falls asleep _right now_ she’ll have almost five hours of sleep. Awesome.

Things are off to a great start already.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Felicity’s alarm goes off at 5:00, she can already smell the heavenly aroma of French roast wafting upstairs from the drip coffee maker she programmed the night before. She is not a natural early riser, but her job involves a lot of early morning call times, so she’s had to adapt accordingly. Coffee is an absolute must, as is getting up early enough to actually enjoy her coffee. She doesn’t like running late or rushing around, so she always factors in an extra half hour to calmly sit and drink her coffee while she psychs herself up for the day ahead. It’s a necessary part of her routine, and the balcony off her bedroom makes a perfect spot for her pre-dawn meditation and caffeine infusion.

There’s a chill in the air this morning, so she pulls her hoodie on over her head before shuffling down to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee in the biggest mug she can find among the mismatched collection of dishes that came with the house. Once she’s properly armed with the precious manna, she trudges back up the tile stairs to her bedroom. Out on the balcony, there’s a rusty iron cafe table and two not-entirely-uncomfortable chairs, and she settles down with her coffee and her laptop to go over the day’s scenes again one last time, because she’s obsessive that way.

It’s muggier outside than she’s used to, being from the desert, but not unpleasantly so, and the air is perfumed with the heady scent of jasmine. The sun won’t be up for another hour at least, but the birds are are already kicking up a ruckus in the trees of the park, and a few early morning joggers and dog walkers are making their way around the path below her balcony. Maniacs.

Felicity’s only halfway through her coffee when she hears the door open on the balcony next door, and Oliver Queen steps out, wearing the same athletic shorts he was wearing last night and the same nothing else whatsoever. He rubs his hands through his sleep-rumpled hair as he wanders over to the balcony railing to gaze out at the park.

He hasn’t noticed her yet, and she isn’t sure if she should say anything. She doesn’t want him to think she’s lurking out here in the dark, spying on him like a creeper—but on the other hand, she’s perfectly entitled to sit on her own balcony, and anyway, she was here first. Technically, _he’s_ intruding on _her_ solitude.

She’s just on the verge of clearing her throat or coughing or _something_ to delicately cue him in to her presence when he stretches both of his arms overhead, twisting his torso away from her, and the sight of his muscles rippling up and down his back and shoulders renders her momentarily mute.

When he twists back to the other side, he finally notices her and starts a little, lowering his arms.

“Morning,” Felicity says, giving him a false, bright smile and saluting him with her coffee mug.

“Morning,” Oliver replies warily. His expression isn’t exactly what you’d call friendly, and a pregnant silence stretches out between them as they regard each other.

“Nice view,” she offers finally, because she can’t stand awkward silences, and she always feels the need to try and fill them, usually by babbling or saying something embarrassing. Case in point: it belatedly occurs to her that he might think the nice view she’s talking about is _him_. “I mean the park,” she clarifies. “It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agrees without much enthusiasm. “Listen, I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s fine,” she tells him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I have insomnia,” he explains, rubbing his thumb and fingertips together at his side. “So I exercise late at night at lot. But I’ll wear headphones from now on.”

“Does it help?” she asks.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“The exercise. Does it help your insomnia?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“I get insomnia, too, when I’m feeling anxious about something, which is a lot of the time, actually—I’m kind of an anxious person. If I’m not busy doing something then I end up obsessing about everything I _need_ to do, which makes it hard to sleep. I usually just take a Xanax when it gets bad, though.”

“I’m a recovering drug addict,” Oliver says flatly.

“Right,” she says, pinching her lips together. “So probably no Xanax for you, then.”

“No.”

_Yikes._ This interaction has gone from awkward to mega-awkward at light speed, so Felicity does what any reasonable person would do: she flees.

“Welp,” she says, hastily gathering up her laptop and coffee mug, “this has been a super fun chat, but I need to go get ready for work.”

“See you on set,” Oliver calls out, just as the door closes behind her.

So much for him not recognizing her.

***

The first day of principle photography on any film is always chaotic. Everybody’s scrambling around trying to get their bearings and figure out where everything is and what they’re supposed to be doing and who everyone else is. The mood is a lot like the first day of school, except that, unlike the first day of school, they actually have to get work done and not just goof off in homeroom. Which can be a bit of a challenge, under the circumstances.

But one of the great things about working with John Diggle is that he sets a good example for everyone else on his set by being focused, unflappable, and unfailingly polite.

Usually.

Today, he’s maybe a little bit flapped.

An alarming percentage of the crew were late this morning. Apparently, this isn’t unusual for New Orleans, where people tend to have a more laid back attitude about everything, including showing up for work on time. On top of that, two of the sets aren’t finished, and a key prop is nowhere to be found. And as if all that isn’t enough, the lead actor is having trouble with his lines.

“Cut!” Diggle calls out, for the fifth time in as many minutes. “That’s the old line, Oliver. Felicity, can you please give him the new line?”

“ _How am I supposed to know what to believe, you change your tune more than Spotify,_ ” she reads from the script.

“Is that really the line we’re going with?” Oliver asks, frowning.

“That’s the line we’re going with,” Diggle confirms.

“Don’t you think it’s funnier if I say iPod Shuffle?”

Felicity and Diggle exchange a look.

“Let’s just stick to the script for now,” Diggle says with remarkable show of patience.

They start the scene over, and this time Oliver gets halfway through it before stumbling over the words and barking out, “Line!”

Felicity grits her teeth and feeds him the line. It’s her job to prompt the actors when they forget their lines, but she doesn’t appreciate being barked at. There’s a way to ask nicely, and shouting “line” at the top of your lungs isn’t it.

_Nice_ doesn’t seem to be an adjective that modifies the noun _Oliver Queen_ , however.

“ _Goddammit!_ ” he yells when a production assistant’s cell phone goes off in the middle of a take. “Could we get a little fucking professionalism around here?”

“Cut,” Diggle says. “Will everyone double-check that your phones are silent? Thank you.” His tone is starting to sound dangerously strained. Felicity has never once seen Diggle lose his temper, but she can feel the tension radiating off of him, like it’s taking all his effort to hold it in check.

“And could she _possibly_ stand somewhere other than directly in my eye line?” Oliver asks irritably, gesturing at the wardrobe supervisor.

“Iris?” Diggle says, giving her a pleading look. “Would you mind moving out of Oliver’s eye line for me, please?”

“Sure,” Iris replies sweetly before cutting an icy look in Oliver’s direction. “I’d be happy to.”

Felicity’s worked with Iris before, and she knows that look. Someone’s clothes are definitely going to be over-starched and itchy tomorrow.

“Reset _,_ ” Diggle says, and the actors move back into position. “From the top.”

“Quiet on the set,” the first AD calls out. “Roll camera.”

“Rolling.”

“Marker.”

“Twenty-four, A, take nine.”

“Action,” Diggle says.

There’s a protracted pause, and then Oliver growls, “Line!”

“Cut,” Diggle sighs.

***

“Two hours,” Felicity murmurs to Diggle when they finally get a decent take out of Oliver and move on to the next shot. “For one setup.”

Not only does Oliver not know his lines, but he’s not hitting his marks consistently, which is going to wreak havoc with the continuity in editing. Felicity’s actually starting to go hoarse from correcting him so much, and every time she has to point out that he’s screwed up—again—it earns her a stony glare from Oliver. Like it’s her fault he can’t do his job.

So yeah, fuck Oliver Queen, and fuck the private jet he flew in on.

“I know,” Diggle says, rubbing his forehead. “We’ll get better.”

Except _they_ aren’t the problem. Oliver is the problem. Felicity knows better than to say that out loud, though.

“He’ll find his footing,” Diggle says, reading her mind. “First days are always tough.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince her, so Felicity reaches over and gives his arm an encouraging squeeze. “I’m sure he will.”

He better. Or else this project is in serious trouble.

***

“Hundred bucks says he doesn’t even know my name,” Iris complains at lunch. “Can’t be bothered to learn his lines, can’t be bothered to learn any of the crew’s names, but God forbid anybody should stand in His Majesty’s precious eye line.”

“He wouldn’t let us play music in the makeup trailer this morning,” grumbles Caitlin, the head of the makeup department, as she pushes her salad around on her plate. “We always play music in the makeup trailer.”

“What a dick,” Iris says.

“I guess we should count ourselves lucky he hasn’t thrown a chair at anyone,” Felicity says, picking the peas out of her chicken pot pie. “Yet.”

“He’s clean now, though, right?” Caitlin says. “I mean, he seems sober, doesn’t he?”

It’s true. For all that he’s been a pain in the ass, he hasn’t seemed high—just unprofessional and incompetent. And based on Felicity’s conversation with him this morning, it sounds like he really has cleaned up his act. He just hasn’t bothered to learn his lines.

“Maybe that’s why he’s so cranky,” Felicity says. “Maybe he’s nicer when he’s high.”

Iris shakes her head. “Didn’t he get arrested for urinating on a cop once? Only a white boy could get away with shit like that without getting shot.”

Caitlin snorts. “And let’s not forget the time he wandered into his neighbor’s house by mistake and passed out in their guest room buck naked.”

“You know they put me up in the house right next door to his,” Felicity says.

Iris’ eyes widen. “Girl. You better double-check that all your doors are locked at night.”

“Or not,” Caitlin adds, smirking. “What?” she says off of Iris’ raised eyebrows. “He may be a jerk, but he’s a _hot_ jerk. Have you seen those biceps?”

“It’s one thing to admire from a safe distance,” Iris says, “but I hope we all love ourselves too much to mess with the likes of Oliver Queen.”

“Amen,” Felicity agrees.

***

Thanks to Oliver, they don’t wrap until eleven o’clock that night, and then Felicity has to stay to finish her daily reports for the editor, so by the time she gets away from work she’s put in a sixteen-hour day, and that’s on top of the not-so-great sleep she got last night. She’s _exhausted._ All she wants to do is curl up on her couch with a pint of ice cream and a glass of wine and decompress in front of the TV for a little while before crawling into bed.

Only when she finally gets home, she discovers that the power is out in her stupid house.

“No no no no _noooo,_ ” Felicity whines, letting her bags drop to the floor by the front door. She’s too tired to deal with this right now, and she has to be back at work in … nine hours.

For a moment, she seriously considers saying “screw it” and just going upstairs and crawling into bed in the dark. But then she’ll just come home to the same problem tomorrow night, and meanwhile all the food in her fridge will spoil, and anyway her phone is almost dead, and she really needs to charge her laptop for tomorrow and … frak.

Using her almost-dead phone as a flashlight, Felicity sets off in search of the breaker box. She searches the entire house from top to bottom, and then she goes out back and searches around the outside of the house. No luck.

Which means the breaker box is probably in the house next door. She can see lights on inside, so whatever’s wrong with her power isn’t affecting the big house—or at least not all of the big house. But they were built together as one house, basically, so they probably share a breaker box.

Awesome.

Because after a long day on set putting up with Oliver Queen and his attitude problem, what she _really_ wants to do is deal with him at home, too.

She trudges back inside, unlocks the adjoining door between their houses, and knocks—a little more politely than she did last night. After a few long moments, she hears the bolt on the other side slide back, and Oliver opens the door.

At least tonight he’s fully clothed in a gray V-neck and a pair of cargo pants. He quirks a quizzical eyebrow at her mutely, because apparently even a civil hello is too much to expect out of him.

“Sorry to bother you—again,” Felicity says, pasting a patently false smile on her face. “But my power’s out, and I think we share a breaker box.”

His eyes flick briefly to the pitch blackness behind her, and then he steps back to allow her inside. “Come on, it’s in the laundry room.”

“Thanks,” she says, letting out a breath as she steps over the threshold into his living room.

His house is decorated similarly to hers, only with a little more rock star flair than her much humbler abode. Two huge leather sofas flank an expensive-looking carved stone coffee table, a baby grand piano sits in front of a set of bay windows, and an enormous painting of a naked woman hangs on the wall opposite the giant flatscreen TV. Classy.

“This way,” Oliver says, leading her through the dining room, past a table long enough to seat a dozen people, into a stunning chef’s kitchen, and to the small laundry room just off of it.

He opens the metal panel set into the wall and peers at it, his brow furrowing. “Um …”

“Those are fuses,” Felicity says, heart sinking. “That’s a fuse box instead of a breaker box.”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you know how to replace a fuse?”

She could Google it, probably, but the real problem is— “I’m pretty sure you have to have a new fuse to replace it with. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any extra fuses lying around?”

He shakes his head. “No, sorry.”

“Do you mind if I …?” She gestures to the cabinets in the laundry room.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, digging his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call the landlord.”

Oliver steps out of the room while Felicity rummages through the cabinets and drawers in search of a fresh fuse. She finds laundry detergent, fabric softener (TMZ would probably be thrilled to know that Oliver Queen prefers the dryer sheets with the teddy bear on the box), spare lightbulbs, a toolbox with an assortment of screwdrivers and wrenches, a toilet plunger … but no extra fuses.

By the time she gives up the search and wanders into the kitchen, Oliver is just getting off the phone. “Apparently they don’t keep spare fuses in the house because they don’t want the tenants messing with the panel themselves,” he tells her.

“That’s probably wise,” Felicity concedes. “Inconvenient for me, but wise.”

“He says he’ll have an electrician come out first thing in the morning. Sounds like this happens a lot.”

“Terrific,” she says, pursing her lips. “So in the meantime …”

“In the meantime, you’re kind of screwed, I guess.” He almost manages to look sympathetic.

She sighs. “Now I’m really wishing I’d charged my phone and laptop before I left the set.”

“You could charge them here.”

It’s a generous offer, and it takes her by surprise. Generosity isn’t something she would have expected from Oliver Queen—not based on her experience with him so far, anyway.

“I don’t want to impose,” she says, biting her lip. She kind of really does need to charge her laptop tonight, though. She could try to find a coffee shop that’s still open, maybe, but she’s so tired the thought of it legitimately makes her want to die.

“It’s fine,” he says, flicking a dismissive hand. “Really.” And then he flashes a smile at her—a gorgeous, brilliant, movie star smile—and says, “What are neighbors for, right?”

Felicity’s stomach does a traitorous somersault—because as much as she likes to believe she’s immune to the charms of men like Oliver Queen, that smile of his is downright _lethal_.

“Go get your stuff,” he says, tilting his head at the door to her house.

So, okay. Fine. It’ll only take an hour or so to charge her electronics. One hour of imposing on his hospitality, and then she can collapse into her own bed. She can survive for one hour.

She digs her laptop and phone charger out of her bag and brings them over to Oliver’s house. “Where should I plug in?” she asks uncertainly.

“Wherever you want.” He’s settled onto the couch, slouching back against the cushions with his bare feet propped on the coffee table and a copy of the script in his hand. “There’s outlets everywhere,” he adds, waving vaguely.

After a brief survey of her surroundings, Felicity decides on an outlet in the dining room, dragging one of the chairs over to the wall to set her devices on while they charge. When she’s done, she straightens and bites her lip, feeling momentarily panicky, because _now what?_ Is she supposed to go back to her own house and sit in the dark while she waits? Or stay here with Oliver? And if she stays here, will they have to, like, talk? Because _ugh_.

“You’re welcome to hang out here while you wait,” he says, answering her unspoken question without looking up from his script.

“Thanks.” She eyes the unoccupied couch opposite Oliver, trying to work up the nerve to go sit down.

“There’s beer in the fridge if you want something to drink. You can help yourself.”

“I thought you—” she starts, and then snaps her mouth firmly shut, because his recovery is _really_ none of her business.

“I keep it on hand for guests,” he says, looking up at her finally. “Beer was never my poison of choice, anyway.”

By some miracle, Felicity resists the urge to ask him what _was_ his poison of choice, because again, _not her business._ And also because she doesn’t actually want to know the details. It’s easier to work with him if she doesn’t have to imagine him doing things like snorting coke off a prostitute—which was how he reportedly spent his twenty-first birthday.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, looking back down at his script. “It’s not like my history’s a secret.”

Felicity flees into the kitchen, grateful for something to do with herself, and pulls open the fridge. “Wow, you really like kale,” she observes. “And chicken breasts.”

“Like’s a strong word,” Oliver says ruefully. “But that’s the glamorous life of an actor for you—chicken breasts and kale, all day every day.”

“Sound grim.” There are three different varieties of craft beer in his refrigerator—all of them local—and she settles on a pale wheat called Canebreak.

“It’s not like I do it for fun. It’s literally what they pay me for.”

“Bottle opener?” Felicity asks, shutting the refrigerator and spinning around.

“Drawer to the right of the fridge.”

She pops the top off her beer, then glances around the kitchen helplessly.

“Cabinet to the left of the sink,” he supplies before she can ask where the garbage can is.

Felicity deposits her bottle cap in the trash and wanders back into the living room. “I worked with an actor once who used to drink chicken smoothies every day. He’d throw a whole chicken breast into the blender with a bunch of raw spinach and walk around the set drinking it like a protein shake.” She shudders at the memory as she sinks down on the couch across from Oliver.

He glances up at her. “I tried that once.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust. “Really?”

“Made me throw up. Never did it again.”

She nods. “So when you finish this shoot are you gonna, like, pig completely out and eat all the things? Because I totally would.”

He shifts, sitting up a little more and dropping his feet to the floor. “Depends if I’ve got another project lined up after this one.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Felicity takes a swig of her beer. It’s malty and delicious, but more importantly it helps loosen the knot of tension that’s lodged at the base of her neck. “This is good,” she says, gesturing at the beer.

“I wouldn’t know. I just bought what the guy at Whole Foods recommended.”

“Well the guy at Whole Foods has excellent taste,” she says, and takes another swig.

“Actually,” Oliver says, watching her, “since you’re here, there is something you could do for me.”

“What?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him over her beer bottle. Because she’s worked in the business long enough to be wary, and if he thinks she’s looking to trade sex for access to a power outlet, she’s prepared to disabuse him of it of that idea. Violently.

“Relax,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Because it’s written all over your face. Trust me, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Okay,” she says, minutely reassured but also vaguely offended. “What is it, then?”

“Would you mind helping me run lines? I haven’t quite mastered all of the new pages.”

She tilts her head at him. “Really?” she replies dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head slightly.

Felicity holds out her hand for the script. “Give it here.”

It isn’t the sort of thing she’d ordinarily do for an actor—falling, as it does, firmly into the category of _not her job—_ but since he’s letting her intrude on his personal time and space, it seems like the least she can do under the circumstances. Besides, it’s an easy, non-awkward way to pass the time without either of them having to strain themselves trying to make small talk. Not to mention the fact that Oliver actually, you know, _knowing_ his lines will make everyone’s life a lot easier on set—especially hers.

So Felicity spends the next hour running lines with him, going over all the new pages until he has them down cold. And then they go back and run through the whole script from top to bottom. She’s surprised to discover he has all the old stuff memorized perfectly, so it’s not that he wasn’t prepared _at all,_ it’s just the revisions that slipped him up today because he hadn’t had as much time to learn them.

Between that and the fact that Oliver has been perfectly civil to her all night, Felicity’s starting to think maybe she judged him a little harshly. Maybe he isn’t a _total_ asshole. At least not all the time.

“I think you’ve got it down,” she says, flipping the script closed when they’ve finished going through his last scene.

“God, I hope so.” He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees as he scrubs his hands over his face. “Today was a disaster.”

“I wouldn’t call it a _disaster,_ exactly,” Felicity hedges.

Oliver looks at her, arching a single eyebrow. “You sure didn’t like me very much.”

Her mouth falls open. “I didn’t—that’s not—I liked you fine,” she lies. Badly.

“It’s okay,” he says, shaking his head. “I know I didn’t make any friends today.”

“Well, you did come off sort of … grouchy,” she admits.

“I was nervous,” he says defensively. “It’s been awhile since I’ve done this, and I’ve got a lot riding on this job.”

“We _all_ do,” she points out. “And everyone’s nervous the first day of shooting, but you were the only one I saw snapping at people.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up.

_Shit,_ why does she always have to run her stupid mouth off? She really needs to work on her brain-to-mouth filter.

“Sorry,” she says, cheeks reddening, “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you’re right,” he says flatly. “It’s no excuse.”

She’s starting to feel like she’s wearing out her welcome, so she pushes herself off the couch. “You know, I’ll bet my stuff’s done charging by now,” she says, moving into the dining room to check her phone. “Yep, 99 percent, which means I can get out of your hair.”

“You gonna be okay over there in dark?” Oliver asks.

Felicity nods as she gathers up her chargers and laptop. “Oh, sure, it’ll be fine. It’s not like you can tell the power’s out when you’re sleeping, right?“

“Hang on,” he says, getting up and heading into the kitchen. “I’ve got something for you.”

She waits, clutching her laptop to her chest and shifting from foot to foot while he digs through one of the drawers until he finds a flashlight.

“Here, take this,” he says, handing it to her.

“ _May it be a light in dark places, when all other lights go out,_ ” she quotes, clutching it.

His eyebrows draw together in incomprehension. “What?”

“Galadriel? From _The Lord of the Rings?”_ His expression doesn’t get any less befuddled. “Never mind. It’s a nerd thing. Thanks for the flashlight.”

Oliver’s mouth curves into a smile, and for a second his eyes actually twinkle, which—how does he even _do_ that? “Give me your number,” he says, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “Just in case.”

In case what, Felicity’s not exactly sure, but she recites it for him, and while he’s busy adding her to his contacts, she takes the opportunity to marvel at how absurdly attractive he is when he’s not being a dick. His face is so gorgeous it’s literally breathtaking. It’s just such a shame that beautiful people are usually such jerks.

Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she jumps.

“That’s me,” Oliver says. “You can call me if you run into any trouble.”

“Thanks,” she says, tipping her phone at him. “And thanks for the use of your electricity.”

“Anytime.” He beams his movie star smile at her again, and her knees go a little bit weak. Stupid, traitorous knees.

“Night,” Felicity mumbles as she flees into the safety of her dark house with her laptop and her borrowed flashlight.

It’s not until she crawls into bed twenty minutes later that she bothers to read the text Oliver sent her.

_I’m here if u need anything sleep tight neighbor._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Day two of shooting goes about a thousand percent better than day one. The delinquent crew members are all on time, the sets have been completed, and there are no more missing props. But the biggest change is Oliver. When he strolls onto the set that morning, he’s a completely different person: smiling, friendly, addressing all the crew by name. It’s as if someone turned up the charming dial on his personality to eleven.

Felicity isn’t buying it. The shift in his attitude is too sudden and too dramatic. It feels calculated, like an act he’s putting on. It’s a good act, but she’s too jaded by the business to believe it’s sincere. The kind of people who go into acting tend to thrive on attention and are good at getting it. Good at putting on a show for an audience, good at dazzling people with their friendly, flirty shtick. Oliver’s just playing a part to ingratiate himself with the crew he alienated.

Whatever, Felicity doesn’t even care if it’s fake, because this Oliver Queen is way easier to work with than the one who showed up yesterday. He knows all his lines and hits all his marks, which means they get through the first scene of the day in record time—and he doesn’t even bark at a single person.

“Everyone good?” Diggle asks the actors after they finish running through a quick rehearsal of the next scene on the call sheet.

“Felicity?” Oliver says politely.

“Yes?” she answers from her seat by the monitors.

“My second line—does it start with ‘but’ or ‘and’?”

She double-checks the script. “And.”

“Thank you.”

“You good?” Diggle asks Oliver.

“I am now,” he replies with a nod.

***

“He bought me coffee,” Iris tells Felicity later. “ _And_ he apologized for yesterday. Can you believe it?”

“He let us listen to music this morning,” Caitlin says. “Anything we wanted. And he was _chatty._ It was weird.”

“I wonder what got into him,” Iris says.

“Maybe he was just having a bad day yesterday,” Felicity offers with a shrug.

“You don’t think he’s using again, do you?” Caitlin whispers. “And that’s why he’s so happy all of a sudden?”

Felicity looks across the soundstage, to where Oliver is talking with a couple of the other actors. “No, I don’t think it’s that. Maybe he just realized he was acting like a jerk.”

“Yeah, right,” Iris says. “As if.”

***

“Psst,” Oliver says, sauntering over to Felicity’s chair in front of the monitors that afternoon.

She looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Got a text from the landlord. He said your power’s all fixed.”

“Oh, thank God!” she says, sighing with relief. “And thank you again for letting me charge my stuff last night.”

Oliver helps himself to the chair next to hers. It’s the director’s chair, but Diggle’s off talking to the DP and the camera operator, so it’s not like he’s using it. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. It was pretty much the least I could do.”

“No, the least you could have done was nothing,” Felicity points out. “You did more than that.”

He smiles at her, and his eyes do that twinkling thing again—at least she’s sitting down this time. “It’s going a lot better today, don’t you think?”

She nods, turning back to her computer screen so she doesn’t have to look directly into those ridiculous blue eyes of his. “Yes, it is.”

“Funny how much faster things move along when the actors know their lines,” he says, nudging her with his elbow.

She huffs out a laugh. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but yeah, it’s funny how that works.”

Oliver leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Aren’t you impressed by how nice I’m being to everyone?”

Felicity’s eyebrows lift as she turns to face him again. “Am I impressed you’re meeting the bare minimum requirements of common politeness? Yeah, totally.”

He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to smile. “Wow. Tough room.”

“The coffee for Iris was a nice touch,” she allows. “It’s never a good idea to piss off the person in charge of your wardrobe.”

“Don’t I know it,” he agrees, running a finger inside the collar of his shirt. “And I apologized to that PA, too.”

“His name is Roy.”

“I actually knew that.”

“I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“Asshole’s not my natural state, is what I’m trying to say.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Felicity says. She still hasn’t figured out what the truth of Oliver Queen is, but she suspects it lies somewhere in between the entitled douchebag of yesterday and the easygoing bro who showed up for work today. Somewhere closer to the reserved but thoughtful guy she met last night, maybe.

The first AD calls the actors back to their places, and Oliver pushes himself to his feet. “I guess we will,” he says, giving her a wink before heading back onto the set.

_Damn_. Felicity wonders how many women Oliver Queen has charmed into his bed with that wink of his. Probably all of them.

Thank god she’s immune to the lure of actors, or she might be in real trouble.

***

On Friday, Felicity gets a text from Oliver in the middle of the shooting day.

_Save me_

She’s still squinting at her phone, trying to make sense of the message, when another text comes through.

_Please_

She looks up. Oliver is kicked back in his chair on the other side of the soundstage. One of the other actors is standing in front of him, chattering away while Oliver stares at his phone and nods along like he’s totally listening and not texting someone for help.

_What?_ she types in reply.

_Rays been talking to me about his juice cleans for 10 min send help_

Felicity snorts. Ray cornered her after lunch yesterday and yammered at her about GMOs for a good twenty minutes until she finally had to excuse herself and flee to the bathroom. He seems like a nice enough guy, but man, can he talk, and he does not know when to take a hint.

_So get up and walk away,_ she types out.

_I don’t want to b rude_

And then a second later: _I’m trying to b nice remember_

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Hey, Roy,” she calls out to the passing PA. “Will you please tell Oliver that I need to talk to him?”

“Sure thing,” he says, and ambles over to Oliver. She sees him pass on the message, and then Oliver gets to his feet and heads her way.

“My hero,” he says, smiling at her.

“I feel like you could have found a way out of that situation without my intervention.”

His smile widens. “Yeah, but this this way I get to come over here and pretend to talk to you.”

Felicity refuses to be charmed. Because pretty boy actors. Ugh.

***

Even though it’s only been a three-day work week, Felicity is running on fumes by the end of the day Friday. Fortunately, she’s got the next two days off to recharge. Hallelujah. She cannot wait to go home and do nothing at all.

“Goodnight,” Oliver says to her as he’s leaving the set that night.

“See you Monday.”

“Not if I see you first,” he replies with that devastating wink of his.

Felicity’s so tired it barely even affects her this time. So there.

She spends all day Saturday catching up on sleep and television—sometimes multitasking by napping on the couch in front of the television—and doesn’t leave her house at all. It’s heaven.

On Sunday she sleeps until noon and then drags herself out of bed to meet Iris for brunch. They have mimosas and stuffed French toast and spend the afternoon walking it off on Magazine Street.

“What do you think about Barry?” Iris asks as they’re flipping through the racks in a clothing boutique.

Felicity looks up from the sweaters she’s pawing through. “Barry the first AD? _That_ Barry?”

“Yeah,” Iris says, trying to act nonchalant and totally failing.

“What do _you_ think about him?” Felicity asks, as if she can’t already tell by Iris’ expression.

“I think he’s kind of cute,” Iris admits.

“He is cute,” Felicity agrees. He’s a little skinny for her taste, and a little too cheerful, but he seems like a great guy. “And nice, too.”

“Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”

“He hasn’t mentioned one. Do you want me to ask him?”

“Definitely not,” Iris says. “This isn’t middle school, I don’t want you passing him a note in history class.”

“I can be subtle about it,” Felicity says.

“No,” Iris says, laughing, “you can’t. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

“Fine,” Felicity concedes. “But _you_ should say something to him.”

“So tell me,” Iris says, changing the subject, “what’s it like being neighbors with Oliver Queen?”

Felicity shrugs, turning her attention to a sale rack full of jackets. “He’s pretty quiet, actually.”

“No raucous sex parties keeping you awake at night?”

Felicity laughs. “No, thank God.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“He does have really bad taste in music.” Felicity holds up a trench coat for Iris’ opinion. One of the benefits of being friends with a professional costumer is the free fashion advice.

Iris wrinkles her nose. “Grommets? Seriously? It’s a raincoat with holes in it, put it down.”

Felicity sighs and shoves the trench back onto the rack.

“So how bad are we talking?” Iris asks. “Like Nickelback bad?”

“Speed metal.”

“Gross.”

“He works out to it, I guess. I had to ask him to turn it down the first night.”

Iris’ eyebrows shoot up. “You made _Oliver Queen_ turn his music down?” She presses her hand against her chest, beaming at Felicity. “I am so proud of you right now, you don’t even know.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know it was him when I knocked on the door.”

Iris snorts. “That must have been a surprise.”

“Yeah, he was all sweaty and shirtless, too.” She shivers a little at the memory.

“Ah, so you’ve seen the abs,” Iris says, nodding. “Crazy, right?”

“So do they feel as good as they look?” Felicity asks. As wardrobe supervisor, Iris not only gets to see all the actors in a state of partial undress, but she actually gets to touch them when she does her measurements and fittings and alterations. It’s almost enough to make Felicity wish she’d learned to sew.

“No comment,” Iris says archly. “I’m a professional.”

“Fine,” Felicity says, sticking out her tongue. “Let’s talk about Barry some more, then.”

***

Monday morning is the start of their second week of principal photography, and they’re back at it bright and early. They’ve managed to make up all the time they lost on the first day, so they’re officially back on schedule, much to Diggle’s relief. The man is downright perky this morning, which is untoward, given the indecent hour of the morning.

“How was your weekend?” Oliver asks, wandering over to Felicity’s chair while they’re setting up for the first shot.

“Good,” she says, stifling a yawn. “Quiet. How about you?”

“Same,” he says. “Hey, what’s the scene right before this one?” He moves behind her chair and leans over her shoulder to peer at her computer screen. Uninvited. “Is it the one at the restaurant?”

Felicity sighs, because seriously? Does he really need to loom over her and press his big broad chest against her shoulder like that, or put his face right next to hers, close enough that she can smell the woodsy cologne he wears? (He smells excellent, by the way. Really, _really_ excellent.)

“Hey,” she says, smacking his hand when he starts to reach for her trackpad. “Hands off.”

Oliver straightens and gazes down at her with an amused look on his face.

“I know you actors have no sense of personal space,” she grumbles, “but no one touches my computer but me, got it?”

“So noted,” he says, fighting a smirk. And then losing the fight and just full-on smirking at her.

Felicity rolls her eyes and turns back to her screen, scrolling to the previous scene in the script. “Yeah, it’s the restaurant,” she tells him.

“So this is right after I learn my father’s secret,” he says, his eyebrows scrunching. “Don’t you think I should say something about it to Ray’s character in this scene?”

“No,” Felicity says. “I don’t. Your character’s not the type to go around sharing family secrets.”

“Okay, then,” Oliver says, and there’s that amused look on his face again. “We’ll do it your way.”

“It’s not my way,” she mutters, looking down to hide the blood traitorously rushing to her cheeks. “It’s the writer’s.”

***

_Iowa or temple???_ Oliver texts her out of the blue later that day.

_What are you talking about?_ Felicity texts back.

_March madness_

Of course, she should have known. Boys and their sportsball.

_I don’t like college basketball,_ she replies.

At least two minutes pass before Oliver texts back: _I’m not sure we can b friends anymore_

Felicity responds with the smiling poop emoji.

***

“Notre Dame or Michigan?” Oliver asks, sliding into the seat next to Felicity in the commissary on Tuesday. Despite the fact that there’s no one else sitting nearby, he scoots his chair right up next to hers. Like up _against_ her, so that his thigh—his extremely large, extremely _muscular_ thigh—is brushing against hers.

“You can’t make me care about your basketball bracket,” Felicity says, concentrating on her phone. She’s using her lunch break to catch up on social media. Kayne West went on another epic Twitter rant today, and she’s trying to get through it before she has to go back to to work.

“Are you on Twitter?” Oliver asks, leaning over to peer at her screen.

“Do we need to have another talk about personal space?” Felicity says, holding her phone against her chest so he can’t read it.

He smirks at her in that infuriating way that he has—that way that says he’s perfectly aware of how attractive he is and what it does to the people around him, and he fully intends to use it to his advantage—before turning his attention back to his own phone.

Felicity rolls her eyes and reaches for a French fry. A second later, her phone buzzes against her boob, making her start. _Oliver Queen followed you_ the new Twitter notification announces.

She looks over at him and raises her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“Now all your crazy fans are going to start stalking me online for info about you.”

He frowns. “I can unfollow you if you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says. “I can take it.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he says, and there’s that damned smirk again.

***

Oliver posts a lot of selfies to Twitter and Instagram, Felicity learns when she follows him back. Which isn’t surprising. He’s an actor, and his face is his brand. He’s also in the middle of trying to rebuild his brand, so it’s smart to take every advantage of the free PR.

He doesn’t just tweet about himself, though. He tweets a lot of positive things about the crew, which is pretty sweet, actually.

_Wardrobe killing it today and everyday making me look good,_ he Tweeted along with this morning’s selfie, taken in his trailer. And yesterday he Tweeted a picture with his arm slung around Barry, captioned: _My buddy Barry our 1st AD._

When she scrolls back through his feed, she finds quite a few pictures of the cast and crew, including one of her from last week that she doesn’t remember him taking. It’s a candid, taken from the side as she’s scribbling a note in her logbook. _Grateful for our awesome script supervisor who keeps me in line,_ he Tweeted along with it.

Felicity can’t help smiling as she Likes it.

***

Oliver texts her that night at 11:30 as she’s getting ready for bed:

_Boom diggy boom de bangy bang diggy diggy_

Felicity sets down her toothbrush and stares at it for a minute, trying to make sense of it.

_???_ she texts back.

_What songs that from_

_Google is your friend_ , she replies.

_I already tried that’s y I’m texting u_

_Personal internet researcher for Oliver Queen is not in my job description._

_But do u know it?_ he responds, undeterred.

As it happens, she does. But she makes him wait while she washes her face and changes into her pajamas. Once she’s tucked into bed with the lights off and her night guard in, she texts him the answer: _Cobrastyle._

_Thanx_

_I could have been asleep, you know._

_I can here u thumping around over there_

Felicity’s still trying to decide how she feels about the fact that Oliver can apparently hear her moving around _in her bedroom_ when she hears a tapping on the floorboards next door. It’s the familiar rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut,” and she tries to resist, she really does, but she knows that stupid song is going to be stuck in her head all night if she doesn’t answer, so she leans over the side of the bed and raps the two-note response on the floor.

Her phone vibrates with a new text a second later.

_Sweet dreams_

***

The next morning, Oliver texts her as she’s pulling into her parking space outside the soundstage.

_With so much drama in the l b c its kinda hard being snoop d o double g_

Felicity replies with a string of emojis: a car, a cigarette, a martini glass, and an orange.

An hour later, Oliver texts her another random song lyric.

_I'm rocking and ur yawning but u never look my way hey_

She looks up and spots him smiling at her from the other side of the soundstage, where he’s sitting by himself with his earbuds in. Iris has him dressed in a dark blue denim button-down today that looks so good on him it should be against the law.

_What’s with all the hip hop?_ she texts back.

_Making a new workout mix,_ he replies. And then adds, a second later: _Someone told me u didn’t approve of my old one_

Iris. That traitor.

Felicity and Oliver spend the rest of the week trading random hip hop lyrics via text. Movie sets are pretty much one long, boring exercise in “hurry up and wait,” and it helps pass the copious downtime between setups.

“Who’s blowing up your phone?” Caitlin asks on Thursday when Felicity checks her texts for the third time in five minutes.

“No one,” Felicity says, smiling to herself.

***

It’s the middle of the shooting day on Friday, and Ray’s camped out by Felicity’s chair, telling her about his workout regimen. He’s got a great body—like a _really_ great body—so clearly it’s working, but he’s been talking about squats and bent-over rows for like ten minutes, which is a vast overestimation of her interest in the details of his lifting routine.

When her phone vibrates with a new text message, she glances at it surreptitiously. It’s from Oliver.

_This here's a jam for all the fellas tryin to do what those ladies tell us_

He’s standing over by the craft services table, watching her, and when he catches her eye he lifts his eyebrows suggestively. She shakes her head slightly and turns her attention back to Ray. A minute later she gets another text.

_Get shot down cuz ur overzealous_

Felicity slaps her hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Ray asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just my mom.”

_STOP_ she texts back to Oliver.

Ray starts talking about his protein intake, and Felicity smiles and nods along politely. A minute later Oliver texts again:

_Send sos if u need an intervention_

_Don’t be mean,_ she replies, _I happen to like Ray._

Oliver doesn’t text back. When she looks over at the craft services table again, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“I’ve been thinking about getting into marathons when I go back to LA,” Ray’s saying when she tunes back in. “Do you ever do any running?”

“Not unless I’m being chased,” Felicity tells him.

***

Oliver goes radio silent for the rest of the day, and he leaves without saying goodbye after he finishes his last scene. Which is no big deal, it’s not like he says goodbye to her every time he heads home for the day.

On Saturday, Felicity meets up with some of the crew for drinks. Ray and a few members of the cast are there, too, but not Oliver. Not that she’s particularly surprised by his absence. As friendly as he’s been acting on set lately, he doesn’t strike her as the pal-around-with-the-crew-after-work type. Not to mention the whole recovery thing, which probably makes hanging out in bars a nonstarter.

Felicity doesn’t see him again until Sunday afternoon, when she’s sitting on her balcony with a book and a glass of wine. She hears his front door open and close below her, and then she sees him jogging down the front walk, toward the trail that goes around the park.

He makes three full loops before turning off the path and heading home, panting and covered in sweat. He doesn’t look up as he trudges up the walk to the house. Felicity thinks about calling out to him, but doesn’t.

After she gets into bed that night, she reaches for her phone. It’s only 10:30, and she could hear Oliver’s television on downstairs ten minutes ago, so she figures he’s still awake.

_Don't know how you do the voodoo that you do,_ she texts him.

His reply comes almost immediately:

_So well it's a spell hell makes me wanna shoop shoop shoop_

 


	4. Chapter 4

On Tuesday, a new cast member joins the production. His name is Curtis and he’s playing the comic relief foil to Oliver’s character. He’s got an improv background and a husband back in LA, and Felicity adores him immediately for the way his disarming, slightly wacky sense of humor lightens the mood on set.

For the first time, they start losing takes because the actors keep breaking up when the camera’s rolling. Diggle chastises them and cracks the whip to keep things moving, but Felicity can tell he’s secretly pleased about the energy Curtis is bringing to his scenes.

Even Oliver looks like he’s genuinely enjoying himself for a change and not just pretending. Felicity watches him struggle to keep a straight face while Curtis is delivering his lines; the second Diggle says cut, Oliver dissolves into laughter, clutching his stomach and grinning from ear to ear. It’s completely different from the way he usually smiles—artless and spontaneous and just a little bit dorky—and Felicity likes it even more than his heart-melting movie star smile.

He should laugh more often, she thinks. He looks good laughing.

***

“Do you have Snapchat?” Oliver asks on Wednesday, sidling up beside Felicity while she’s browsing the craft services table.

The craft services on this production are frankly disappointing. Where are the Twix bars? And the Butterfingers? They always have Butterfingers in LA, but here all they have are Hershey’s Miniatures. What a rip.

“I do not,” Felicity says as she digs around in the big plastic jar for a Mr. Goodbar. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not fifteen.” She changes her mind and exchanges the Mr. Goodbar for a Krackle.

“Curtis got me into it,” Oliver says. “It’s pretty fun.”

Ah, that explains it. Curtis is basically an enthusiastic puppy in the body of a six-foot-four-inch black man, and even Oliver seems to have fallen under his spell.

“Check it out.” Oliver leans in close and holds his phone up in front of her face.

“What the heck is that?” Felicity asks, appalled.

“The face swap filter.”

“Yikes.” She sticks out her tongue, and the image of her face that’s superimposed on Oliver’s head sticks out its tongue back at her. It’s kind of funny, but also kind of horrifying.

“And here’s one that makes you look like a drag queen,” Oliver says, swiping to another filter.

“Double yikes,” Felicity says, scrunching up her nose. The drag queen version of her scrunches her nose, too.

“How about a flower crown?” Oliver taps the screen. The image softens and a tiara of flowers appears on top of her head. It’s not the worst, actually. He leans in close again, smiling into the camera, and the image on the screen freezes.

“Did you just take a picture of us?” Felicity asks as Oliver pulls the phone away and taps the screen some more. “Are you posting that?”

“Yeah.” He grins at her. “It’s a great picture of you.”

See, this is the problem with actors. They basically ooze charisma out of their pores like a plug-in air freshener, so if they’re even mildly friendly to you it _feels_ like they’re flirting when they’re not. It’s easy to mistake the intensity of Oliver’s smile and all his casual touching for genuine interest, when in actuality it’s more like the kind of professional flirting that bartenders and salesmen do. Tempting as it may be to play along, it would be pathetic to let yourself believe there’s anything real behind it.

But contrary to the appearances Felicity works hard to maintain when she’s at work, she is not made of stone. She’s a flesh and blood woman possessed of a heart and _feelings_ and stuff, and when a former _People Magazine “_ Sexiest Man Alive” smiles at you while saying you look great, you have to be dead not to feel _something_.

Which is dangerous. She isn’t allowed to actually start liking Oliver Queen, because that’s the kind of thing that leads to trouble. Big trouble. And misery. Lots and lots of misery.

Felicity helps herself to a whole handful of Hershey’s Miniatures, halfheartedly wishing Oliver would go back to acting like an entitled dick instead of being so damned charming all the time.

***

Okay, so _maybe_ Felicity downloaded Snapchat after that and created an account for herself. But only because she wanted a better look at that picture Oliver took of her. And yes, she had to start following Oliver in order to see the picture, and he immediately followed her back.

Fine, okay, she may also have saved a screenshot of it on her phone. It’s not like she set it as her wallpaper or anything. (Not that she didn’t consider it—briefly—before coming to her senses.)

It doesn’t _mean_ anything. She just likes the picture. It’s a flattering filter, okay?

It has nothing at all to do with Oliver Queen. Or the way his eyes are all crinkly as he grins into the camera, or how cozy the two of them look with their faces right up next to each other.

Yeah, she is definitely screwed.

***

Thursday morning, Oliver posts a new selfie to Instagram and Twitter. He’s at the gym, drenched with sweat, all bulging biceps and veiny forearms. The caption reads: _One week out from my first fight scene in 5 years. No fear._

Felicity stares at it for five solid minutes, because she is shallow and weak.

And then she saves a copy of it to her phone.

Yep. Totally screwed.

***

On Friday, Oliver starts acting tense and irritable again. Not as bad as that first day, but there’s definitely something bothering him. He spends all of his down time locked in his trailer, and when he does come out to shoot his scenes, he’s brusque and distant. Even Curtis can’t inspire him to crack a smile that’s not scripted.

_Everything okay?_ Felicity texts Oliver at lunch when he retreats to his trailer again.

_Fine_ , he replies.

That’s it.

That’s the extent of his answer, just the one word.

So, okay. Whatever’s got his panties in a twist, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. She tried. If he wants to sulk like Achilles in his tent that’s his prerogative.

Five minutes later, Oliver texts her again.

_Thanx for asking tho_.

The next time he emerges from his trailer he seems better, like whatever was bothering him isn’t bothering him anymore. Either that or he’s just doing a better job of hiding it. Felicity can’t help thinking his smiles seem more artificial than usual, but maybe she’s just reading too much into it. Whatever. She is not an expert on Oliver Queen and all of his many moods.

A few hours later, when they’re on the last shot of the day, he wanders over to her chair between setups. “Hey,” he says, smiling at her, and maybe he is fine, because this smile seems genuine enough. Which is funny, because everyone else is cranky as hell by this point in the day, Felicity included.

They just have to get this one last scene in the can before they can all go home for the weekend, so everyone’s anxious and rushing, but also exhausted because it’s the end of a long week, so a lot of mistakes are being made that only delay their escape. The last couple hours of the shooting week are torture, basically.

Oliver nods at Felicity’s fingers, which are tapping out an impatient rhythm on the arm of her chair. “Itching to get out of here?”

She stills her hands and grips the armrest, nodding. “This week feels like it’s been a month long.”

“Got any big plans for the weekend?”

“Sleeping.” She stretches her arms above her head until she feels the vertebrae pop. “Laundry. Other than that? No.”

“Do you want to come over for dinner on Saturday?”

Felicity’s head snaps around. “What?”

“I’m cooking a rack of lamb, and I thought maybe you’d want to help me eat it.”

“ _You’re_ cooking?”

“Yeah,” he says a little defensively. “Saturday night’s my cheat meal, and I like to make it count. But you can’t exactly buy a rack of lamb for one, so … what do you say?”

She already told him she doesn’t have any plans. And how often is she going to have a chance to eat rack of lamb cooked by Oliver Queen, anyway? It doesn’t seem like the kind of offer you should pass up. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “Why not?”

“Seven o’clock?”

Felicity nods and gives him a thumbs up, which she immediately regrets. It’s dorky, even for her. “I’ll be there,” she says, awkwardly shoving her hand behind her head like she meant for it to go there all along.

Seriously, why is she the worst?

***

_It’s not a date,_ Felicity tells herself firmly.

To prove it, she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and she refuses to put on any makeup. Except concealer, because duh. And a little blush, because the concealer kind of washed her out. But that’s _it._ And okay, maybe she’s wearing her favorite jeans, the ones she knows make her ass look good. And the T-shirt is a scoop neck that shows off a little of her cleavage. But she isn’t wearing makeup (mostly), so totally not a date.

_Obviously,_ because there’s no way Oliver Queen is interested in her. Talk about unthinkable.

Felicity takes a deep breath to steady her nerves before knocking on the door to Oliver’s castle.

That’s how she’s taken to thinking about it in her head. Oliver’s castle. _There it is,_ she thinks whenever she comes home from work, _there’s Oliver’s castle._

The door opens, and she’s relieved to see he hasn’t dressed up, either. He went the jeans and T-shirt route, too, only his shirt has a picture of a vintage Camaro on it. Also, he’s barefoot, so clearly not a date. See?

“Right on time,” he says, gesturing her inside.

“It’s a compulsion,” she admits. “I’m incapable of being anything other than punctual.”

He smiles as he ushers her into the kitchen. “That’s a not a bad compulsion to have.”

“Smells great in here,” she says, looking around. The lamb’s already out of the oven, sitting on top of the stove under a tent of foil. There’s music playing softly in the background—perfectly unobjectionable, if slightly out of date, indie rock—and two seats at one end of the long dining table are already set with placemats and cloth napkins. The effect is endearingly domestic, which is just about the last thing she ever would have expected from someone like Oliver Queen.

“You like red wine?” he asks, selecting a bottle from the wine rack.

“You really don’t need to serve me wine,” Felicity says uneasily.

“You’ve got to taste the lamb with this Syrah, though. It’ll make the flavors explode on your tongue.”

Seriously, who would have guessed he was such a foodie? But— “Isn’t it hard for you?” she asks as he uncorks the bottle with practiced ease.

He takes a single wineglass out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. “You mean because I’m an addict?”

Felicity flushes and opens her mouth to apologize, but he cuts her off.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”

“Okay,” she says tentatively. “But isn’t it a bad idea for you to be around alcohol?”

He shrugs as he pours the wine. “I wouldn’t be able to survive in Hollywood—or anywhere, for that matter—if I couldn’t stand to be around people drinking alcohol. It’s hard to watch people eat bacon cheeseburgers when I’m living off of chicken breasts and kale, but I manage that somehow, too.”

Oliver slides the wineglass toward her and waits expectantly while she takes a sip. “It’s nice,” she tells him. She’s far from a wine expert, but it tastes expensive, and she shudders internally at the thought of him cracking open a hundred-dollar bottle of wine just for her.

He turns back to the stove and peels the foil off the lamb, giving her a glimpse of a perfectly-browned rib roast crusted with herbs. “I just have to carve, and then we can eat.”

Felicity leans against the counter and sips her wine while he works. With his back turned, she’s free to brazenly admire the curve of his ass and the way his upper back muscles flex as he slices the rib roast into chops. “I still can’t get over the fact that you cook,” she says, enjoying the view.

“I took it up a few years ago when I wasn’t working. It was a way fill my days, and it’s a lot easier than dealing with the hassles that come with going out.”

He sounds slightly rueful, and it conjures an image of him preparing elaborate meals all by himself to pass the time because he can’t get work, all his celebrity friends have shunned him, and if he leaves the house he’ll be hounded by paparazzi. Felicity almost feels sorry for him.

“I’d worked pretty much non-stop since I was eleven,” he continues as he transfers rib chops onto a platter. “So when that dried up, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was so used to having people and chaos around me all the time that I had never learned how to be alone.”

She wants to ask him how he got sober, what finally made him to clean up his act after years of substance abuse, but it feels too personal, and she’s afraid of being intrusive. “That must have been hard,” she says instead.

He shrugs. “I’m a rich guy whining about not having to work for a living. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve got it pretty easy.” He carries the platter of lamb chops to the table and looks up at her. “Anyway, I ended up watching a lot of Food Network, and that’s how I got into cooking.”

“Mac and cheese is pretty much the limit of my culinary expertise,” Felicity confesses. “Not the homemade kind, either, the stuff from a box.”

Oliver smiles as he pulls out a chair for her. “Well, I hope you like this almost as much.”

She does, as it turns out. Lamb’s never been an especial favorite of hers, but Oliver Queen’s lamb is delicious. There are roasted potatoes, too, and brussels sprouts sautéed with balsamic vinegar. The whole spread is like something out of _Food & Wine_. Speaking of which, he was right about the Syrah: it tastes even better with the lamb.

While they eat, Oliver asks her how she got started as a script supervisor, and they end up trading stories about the business and some of the people they know in common. Felicity tries to steer clear of the uglier chapters of his past, but he doesn’t shy away from them, sometimes even bringing them up himself—including the infamous chair-throwing incident.

“Slade Wilson was the biggest asshole I’ve ever worked with,” Oliver says, leaning across the table to refill Felicity’s wine glass. “And I’ve worked with a _lot_ of assholes. I’m not saying I was right to lose my temper, but the guy was a bully, always throwing tantrums and shouting at the crew.”

They’ve both finished eating by then, and he tosses his napkin on the table and sits back in his chair. “He went off on one of the extras one day, started screaming at this poor kid, and when the AD tried to intervene, Wilson turned on him and started shoving him. So I picked up a chair and hit him with it.”

“Wow.” Felicity’s seen her share of on-set temper tantrums, and even been on the receiving end once or twice, but she’s never seen an altercation get physical. If Oliver’s version of the story is true, and he was standing up for a crewmember, it makes her respect him a little more.

“I feel bad about a lot of the things I’ve done,” he admits, shaking his head, “but that’s not one of them. Of course, then Wilson went and did an interview a few years later that made it sound like _I_ was the asshole, but that’s Hollywood for you.”

“Why didn’t you tell your side and set the record straight?”

His mouth curves into a rueful smile. “By then I’d done so much stupid shit, who would have believed me?” He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching across the table for Felicity’s plate.

She helps him clear the table, but when she tries to help with the dishes, he shoos her away from the sink.

“It’s the least I can do after you made me this amazing meal,” she protests.

He slots a plate into the dishwasher and glances up without quite meeting her eyes. “There’s actually something else I was hoping you’d do for me.”

_Right_. Of course there is. Of course she’s only here because he wants something from her.

“I should have known you didn’t invite me to dinner for the pleasure of my company,” she mutters, reaching for her wine.

His expression turns guilty. “I do like your company. I was just hoping you’d run lines with me again, is all.”

They got new script pages yesterday, some of them for a scene they’re shooting Monday morning, and it occurs to her maybe that’s what had him so tetchy yesterday.

“You could have just asked me straight out,” she says irritably. “You didn’t have to go through all this pretense.”

He flashes her his flirty, dazzling smile. “I figured you’d be more likely to say yes if I buttered you up with dinner first.”

Felicity knows him well enough to recognize the lie in that smile by now, and she’s not going to be manipulated by it. “You were upset about the new pages yesterday, weren’t you? About having to memorize them over the weekend.”

A muscle twitches in Oliver’s jaw, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Is that why you were so pissy the first day, too?” she prods. “Because we’d gotten new pages at the last minute?”

He turns his back on her and slams the dishwasher shut. Clearly, she’s struck a nerve.

“You know, there are techniques you can use to help with memorization,” she says, a little more gently, “if it’s hard for you—”

“I don’t have a problem with memorization.” He’s still got his back to her, but he sounds angry, and she doesn’t understand why.

Felicity leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “Then what do you have a problem with?”

He shakes his head—not just to her question, but like he’s rejecting the entire conversation.

She’s too stubborn to let it go, though. He invited her here, and she deserves to know the real reason why. “Oliver?”

His shoulders sag. “It’s not the memorization, it’s the reading,” he says roughly.

She feels a guilty pang in the pit of her stomach. “Do you have dyslexia?”

He shakes his head again.

“Then what?” They’ve been texting back and forth for two weeks, so she knows he can read; it must be something else.

He turns to face her finally, and he doesn’t look angry, he looks ashamed. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t. So why don’t you explain it to me?”

He blows out a long breath, fixing his eyes on the floor. “I have trouble with reading comprehension.”

“Okay,” she says, not sure what that means.

“It’s a learning disability,” he says to the floor, doing that thing where he rubs his thumb and forefingers together. “It’s like dyslexia but different. I’m fine as long as it’s just a short sentence or two, but any more than that and I can’t hold onto the words—it’s like they disappear from my brain as soon as I read them.” He lifts his eyes to hers, and his expression is so wary and mistrustful it makes her chest feel tight.

“You could have told me,” she says softly. “Or at least told Diggle—he would have helped you.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like people to know.”

“I can see that.” His whole body is rigid with tension, like he’s bracing himself for an attack.

He stops rubbing his thumb against his fingers and balls his hand into a fist at his side. “When people look at me, all they see is the strung-out asshole I used to be. Everyone’s already expecting me to fail, I don’t need to give them another reason to think I’m going to screw up.”

Guilt twists in the pit of Felicity’s stomach, because that’s exactly how she saw him at first, and he must know it.

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding it. Only a few of my friends know. My sister. My agent. When I’m in LA, I can get one of them to help me by reading the script out loud. But now I’m here, and I don’t know anyone, and we keep getting new fucking pages every other week …” He trails off, scowling.

“You know me,” Felicity says, taking a step toward him.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.” His eyes are shadowed, his lips pressed together in a hard, thin line. It’s her first real glimpse of the scars left behind by the things he’s had to overcome.

“It’s not being a burden to admit you’re struggling,” she says, starting to understand why he hides behind a false persona. “If you let people know you need help, they’re usually happy to give it.”

He barks out a bitter laugh. “That … hasn’t been my experience.”

“I’m sorry that that’s true.” She wants to reach out to him, to take his hand or offer him a hug, but uncertainty holds her back. She doesn’t know him that well, and he’s so closed off she’s not sure he would welcome it.

His eyes skate away, and she sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I’ve burned a lot of bridges, and this job is basically my last shot. I had to call in the only favors I had left to get it, and if I screw this up, that’s it for me, my career’s over. I’m just—I’m terrified I’m going to blow it.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Felicity says. She turns and casts her eyes around the house. “Where’s your script?” She spots it on the coffee table and heads into the living room.

Oliver follows her as she scoops it up and flips to the goldenrod revisions.

“Felicity,” he says quietly. She glances up and their eyes meet. “Thank you.”

She holds his gaze for a few seconds. Then she nods and looks down at the script again. “Come on,” she says, dropping onto the couch. “Let’s do this.”

He sits down across from her as she starts reading the new dialogue aloud. After a few minutes, he leans back and props his feet up on the coffee table. The next time she looks at him, he’s got his head resting against the back of the couch and his eyes closed. His brow is wrinkled in concentration as he tries to recite a line back to her, but most of the tension in his body language is gone.

Felicity ends up finishing the entire bottle of wine while they work on the new pages. Oliver asks to go back over them again and again, long after it’s clear that he knows it all backwards and forwards. But she understands his nervousness better now, so she humors him.

By the time he finally walks her to the door, it’s nearly eleven. She smiles up at him, feeling pleasantly buzzed from the wine. “Thanks for dinner.” The music’s still playing, and she recognizes the soft strains of an old Shins song.

Oliver leans down and kisses her on the cheek. His stubble feels prickly on her skin, and she has to suppress a shiver.

“Thanks for helping me.” His smile turns flirtatious. “Next time I’ll make you dessert.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Felicity rolls her eyes at him, and lets herself back into her house before he can see the color pinking her cheeks.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Starting Monday, they’re shooting on location all week. First stop: Jackson Square.

The call time is two hours before dawn so they can wring every second of sunlight out of the day, and Felicity cannot stop yawning on the transport van to the location.

“Wakey, wakey,” Oliver says, leaning over the back of his seat to shake a plastic tumbler filled with something thick and green and disgusting in front of her face.

“Ugh,” Felicity grumbles. “Get that away from me.”

An hour later, as the first streaks of light are glimmering in the sky above the river, Oliver shows up at the E-Z UP where video village has been set up and presents Felicity with a white paper bag and a tall styrofoam cup from Café du Monde.

“For me?” she asks, perking up immediately. “Did you seriously walk over there and buy me coffee?”

“Café au lait,” he says smugly. “And beignets.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Did you make one of the PAs do it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did it myself. And I had to take a picture with all the employees, so I hope you appreciate it.”

“I do!” she says, beaming at him. “You’re officially my favorite person today.”

Inside the bag, there’s a mountain of powdered sugar, and buried beneath that are three pillowy squares of fried dough.

“Don’t inhale while you’re eating those,” he warns.

“Not my first rodeo,” she tells him, excavating a beignet. “Want one?”

“Noooo.” Oliver holds up his hands in a warding gesture. “I’m still cutting weight for that fight scene on Thursday.”

“Sucks for you,” Felicity says, grinning as she bites into a beignet right in front of him.

His mouth curls into a smirk. “That’s fine, I’ll just enjoy them vicariously by watching you eat.”

“Does this get you off?” she asks archly and takes another bite.

Oliver licks his lips. “Not gonna lie, it kind of does.”

Felicity laughs, which causes her to make the fatal mistake of inhaling. She coughs sugar out of her lungs, sending a cloud of fine white powder billowing out in front of her.

Oliver side-steps it and pats her on the back, chuckling. “Told you not to inhale.”

“Felicity Smoak, if you are eating powdered sugar anywhere near my wardrobe I will _kill you!_ ” Iris yells from across the set.

***

The Gulf Coast is having an unseasonably cool spring, and it turns out to be a beautiful day. The humidity’s down to a crisp (for New Orleans) 50 percent, there’s a pleasant breeze blowing off the Mississippi River, and the sky is a brilliant blue behind the white towers of St. Louis Cathedral. The production hired some local musicians to play in the background of the scene for color, and they improvise in between takes, filling the air with music.

“Are they going to do that all day?” Martin Stein grumbles. “I can’t hear myself think over that infernal racket.”

As usual, Stein has nothing but complaints. Today, it’s mostly about the harsh sunlight and how it’s creating shadows and overexposing the actors, and how they keep having to move the large diffusion screen as the sun moves across the sky. That’s right, the man is literally complaining about the rotation of the earth.

There are a few pages of dialogue between Oliver and Curtis to cover in the morning, and then later a foot chase across the square with some stuntmen. A crowd of tourists lines up along the barricades to watch them shoot, and during lunch Oliver gamely goes over to sign autographs and pose for selfies.

In the afternoon, when they’re getting ready to shoot the chase, Oliver announces that he wants to do all of his own running.

“No need,” Diggle says, shaking his head. “Ronnie can double you for the long shots.” Ronnie is Oliver’s stunt double, and he looks enough like him that two could be related, although Ronnie is more than a few years younger than Oliver.

“I can do it,” Oliver insists.

“I’m sure you can, but I’m also pretty sure you don’t want to.”

“You’ll be able to shoot my face if I do it myself. It’ll look better.”

“He’s not wrong about that,” Martin Stein interjects.

Diggle still looks skeptical. “You twist an ankle, it’ll shut down production for days.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’m not gonna twist an ankle running across a _park._ ”

Diggle looks over at Ronnie, and then at Maseo, the stunt coordinator.

Maseo shrugs. “Let him do it if he wants.”

Oliver gets his way, and ends up sprinting the length of the square at least twenty times before they’re through getting all the shots they need.

“Having any regrets yet?” Felicity asks while Oliver’s chugging water between takes.

He wipes his mouth and grins. “I could do this all day.”

They finish their last shot a half hour before they lose the light. The musicians must have played “When the Saints Go Marching In” a hundred times that day, and Felicity’s pretty sure she’s going to have that stupid song stuck in her head until she dies.

Oliver sits next to her on the transpo van and blatantly peers over her shoulder while she checks her Twitter feed. She doesn’t bother chastising him this time, and ten minutes later he’s fast asleep on her shoulder. He looks so peaceful, she lets him stay there the rest of the ride.

***

Tuesday they’re shooting on the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and the call time is even more ungodly than Monday.

The lake is immense: so big it’s impossible to see the opposite shore even on a clear day—and today does not look like it’s going to be a clear day. The predawn sky is heavy with clouds, and there’s a sharp, steady wind blowing off the water. Between that and the spray kicked up by the choppy waves beating against the sea wall, Felicity is shivering inside her North Face windbreaker. So much for New Orleans being hot.

“Cold?” Oliver asks as she’s stomping her feet to keep warm.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine once the sun comes up.”

He pulls off his knit cap and puts it on her head. “Here,” he says, tugging it down over her ears.

“You don’t have to give me your hat,” she protests. Although it is soft and warm, and it smells like him. She kind of wants to pull it down over her face and inhale, but manages to resist the impulse.

He shrugs. “I’m heading to hair and makeup, I won’t be able to wear it anyway.”

“Thank you,” she says, already starting to feel warmer.

“Take good care of it,” he calls out as he trudges off to the makeup trailer. “That’s my lucky hat.”

At 6:56 the sun comes up, and at 7:15 it starts to drizzle.

Felicity huddles inside the tent set up for the monitors, while PAs follow Diggle and the talent around with umbrellas. Until the cameras start rolling, and then the actors are stuck out in the elements, trying to deliver their lines without looking like they’re getting a face full of rain. Iris and Caitlin have their hands full keeping the actors looking dry, and Stein is so busy worrying about how the rain is affecting his shots that he doesn’t even have time to complain about it.

When they break for lunch, Oliver shows solidarity with the crew by eating his unsalted chicken breast and kale in the damp, drafty catering tent instead of warm and dry in his cozy trailer.

“How many more setups do we have left to get through?” Caitlin asks wearily.

“Twelve,” Barry says. He’s sitting next to Iris, Felicity can’t help noticing, even though Iris keeps insisting there’s nothing going on between them. Of course, Felicity’s sitting next to Oliver, and it’s not like that means anything.

“Hey!” she protests when Oliver sneaks a Swedish meatball off her plate. “You’ll endanger the six-pack.”

“Yeah,” Curtis says, pointing his fork at Oliver. “Some of us have residuals riding on those abs.”

“You’re making me regret not staying in my trailer,” Oliver grumbles genially.

Curtis leans over to Felicity and whispers, “You’re doing God’s work, keep it up.”

The rain slows everything down, but they just barely manage to get all their shots in before they lose the last of the day’s light. Felicity has never been so glad to climb into the transpo van at the end of a location day.

“You want your hat back?” she asks Oliver when he slides into the seat next to hers.

“You keep it,” he says, smiling at her. “It looks better on you anyway.”

He was probably kidding about it being his lucky hat. He’s probably got a million knit hats just like it.

That’s what Felicity tells herself, anyway.

***

It’s still raining on Wednesday, but they’re shooting inside an office building in the Central Business District, so it doesn’t matter.

Oliver’s not in the first scene, so his call time isn’t until ten. When he gets out of hair and makeup, Felicity can tell right away that he’s deep in his own head. He’s got his earbuds in and he keeps to himself, pacing around an empty office next to the one they’re shooting in and clutching his dog-eared sides in a white-knuckled fist.

It’s a pivotal scene he’s doing today: the turning point of his character’s arc, when he learns the full extent of his best friend’s betrayal. It’s the scene that crystallizes both the story and Oliver’s character. The whole film hangs on the audience buying into it, and unlike the lighter, more dialogue-heavy scenes they’ve shot so far, this one lives or dies on the emotional depth of Oliver’s performance.

Before they start the camera rehearsal, Oliver comes over to Felicity and asks if they can review his lines one last time. He’s focused but tense, and she can hear the edge of apprehension in every word he recites.

“You’ve got this,” she says after they’ve run through the scene twice.

He shakes his head. “I need to be in the moment. I can’t be thinking about the next line, I have to _know_ it.”

“You do.”

He shakes his head again, frowning. “I don’t know.”

“ _I_ do,” Felicity says. “I believe in you.

“I don’t know why,” he mumbles without meeting her eyes.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You’re not in this alone. Every single person on this set is in your corner. We’re all rooting for you.”

His eyes find hers, and he almost sort of manages a faint smile.

Diggle comes up beside Oliver and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Ready to rehearse?”

Oliver nods.

“You nailed this scene in pre-production rehearsals,” Diggle says, giving Oliver’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “So I only want you to play it halfway for now. Save the good stuff for the camera, okay?”

“Okay.” Oliver shoves his sides into his back pocket and makes his way over to the set where Ray’s waiting for him.

Felicity watches on the monitors as they walk through the scene a couple times to finalize the blocking and double-check the cameras and the sound. Once they’ve worked out the technical aspects, they do a full run-through for the actors. Oliver’s delivery is word perfect but strained, and his nervousness is clearly showing through in the stiffness of his movements. As soon as they’re done, he puts his earbuds back in and retreats to the empty office again while they tweak the lighting with the stand-ins.

Twenty minutes later, Barry calls for final checks. They’re doing Oliver’s coverage first, and he stands rigidly on his mark while one of the makeup assistants does a last-second touchup, blotting the shine on his forehead.

“He’s sweating,” Iris whispers beside Felicity.

“He’ll be okay,” Felicity murmurs. She’s almost as tense as Oliver, gripping the arms of her chair so hard her fingers are tingling.

“Picture is up,” Barry calls out. “Quiet, please. Roll camera.”

“Rolling.”

Oliver shakes out his arms and closes his eyes, rolling his head from side to side.

“Marker.”

“Thirty-seven, A, take one.”

When the camera assistant holding the slate steps out of frame, Oliver’s gaze is fixed on the floor.

Diggle calls action, and Felicity holds her breath.

Oliver looks up at Ray, and he’s not Oliver anymore—he’s transformed into his character. His delivery is light and effortless on the first few lines, but as the scene progresses and he starts to react to what Ray’s character is saying, a spectrum of emotions plays out in his expression. It’s understated at first, simmering just beneath the surface, but when he finally erupts in an outpouring of rage and grief and regret, it’s breathtaking in its vulnerability.

Every single person on the set is transfixed by Oliver’s performance, and when Diggle calls cut at the end of the scene, there’s a pregnant moment in which the only sound is Oliver’s ragged breathing.

And then the entire crew bursts into spontaneous applause.

“That’s it, that’s gonna be the take,” Diggle tells Felicity excitedly.

Oliver looks around him, blinking in surprise, and slowly breaks into a smile. Ray steps forward to clap him on the back, and Diggle yanks off his headset and jumps up from his chair. He’s grinning from ear to ear when he shakes Oliver’s hand.

Felicity circles the take in her log to let the editor know it’s the director’s favorite, and then lifts up her glasses to swipe at her eyes. She can count on one hand the number of times an actor’s performance has brought her to tears on set, and Oliver Queen just made the list.

They do two more takes for good measure, and they’re both good, but neither can match the magic of that first one, so they move on to the wide shot. Oliver continues to give it everything he’s got on every take, even when they’re shooting Ray’s coverage, which is generous of him, and more than a lot of actors would do. By the time Diggle calls a wrap on the scene, Oliver is visibly drained, and he disappears immediately to change out of his wardrobe. He’s not in the other two scenes they’re shooting at the location that day, so Felicity doesn’t get a chance to talk to him before he heads out.

When she finally gets home that night it’s nearly ten, but the downstairs lights are on in Oliver’s castle, and she can see the flicker of his television through the curtains. She lets herself into her own house and changes out of her work clothes and into yoga pants and a hoodie. Then she goes back downstairs and stands in front of the door to Oliver’s. She’s torn between wanting to congratulate him and being afraid to disturb him after an exhausting day. In the end, she takes the chance that he’ll appreciate the congratulations more than being left alone, and she knocks on the door.

“It’s open,” Oliver calls out.

Felicity slides the bolt on her side and pushes the door open, wondering when he stopped locking it. Was he expecting her to drop by? Or is he just too lazy to bother locking the door now that he knows she’s not some crazy person who’s going to steal his underwear to sell on eBay?

He’s lounging on his couch watching a basketball game with his bare feet propped on the coffee table, and he sits up a little and smiles at her.

“You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself,” she says, one hand still on the doorknob.

He shrugs. “I did okay.”

She would write it off as false modesty if she hadn’t seen the self-doubt that was eating him up this afternoon. It gives her a new perspective on his reflexive flirting: underneath the slick movie star exterior, he doesn’t seem to believe that anyone could genuinely like him, so he feels like he has to constantly work to win people over.

“That was better than okay, Oliver. That was amazing.”

His smile turns wry. “Careful how much you stroke my ego, you don’t want it going to my head.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but the tone’s not quite right. He’s too worn out tonight to play the part convincingly.

Felicity leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms. “When you get your Oscar nomination, I’ll be able to say I was in the room where it happened.”

He huffs out a breath. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious, I think that scene might earn you a nomination.”

“Not that that wouldn’t be great, but … it’s never going to happen.”

“Bet you a twenty bucks it does.”

He shakes his head, but he’s almost smiling a little.

“Come on, Queen, you’re not afraid of a little action, are you? Or is Andrew Jackson too rich for your blood?”

His eyebrows lift. “I wouldn’t have taken you for such a gambler, Smoak.”

“My mother’s a Vegas cocktail waitress. I was practically raised in casinos.”

He nods, his shoulders sagging a little. “Honestly? I’ll be happy just to avoid getting panned by the critics for once.”

Felicity shakes her head at him. “You really know how to talk yourself out of a victory, don’t you?”

He cracks a smile finally. “It’s a gift.”

“All right, I’m going to stop bothering you now,” she says, turning to go.

“Hey, Felicity,” he calls out just before she closes the door.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

After she crawls into bed that night, Felicity curls up with her phone and scrolls through her Twitter timeline. When she gets to Oliver’s latest Tweet she can’t help smiling.

_Great day on set today. Couldn't have done it w/o the support of this amazing crew. Love u all!_

***

“I love my job,” Caitlin sighs as she watches Oliver and Ray rehearse.

“Me, too,” Felicity agrees.

It’s Thursday, and they’re shooting at a boxing gym in Metairie. It’s … not a nice location, although she’s sure the rustic brick walls and vintage light fixtures will look lovely on camera. But otherwise, the building is dank and grubby, and it smells like old rubber, BO, and dirty socks, a fragrance that’s not at all improved by the rain they’ve gotten this week.

However. They’re shooting a scene where Oliver and Ray spar in the ring. All shirtless and sweaty. So the view goes a long way to making up for the stench of stale testosterone and ball sweat.

In addition to foreshadowing the big fight between Oliver and Ray later in the film, this boxing scene is meant to be _Sunset Limited_ ’s version of the _Top Gun_ beach volleyball scene—something to pull in female and gay audiences. It’s not quite Val Kilmer in the sand, but Felicity would definitely buy a ticket to it, if she wasn’t already getting to watch for free.

Sometimes her job can be pretty great.

Even though it’s ostensibly just a friendly sparring match, it’s supposed to highlight the underlying tension growing between the two characters, and the fight choreography is elaborate. Every motion has to be carefully planned and executed so the actors and stuntmen don’t get injured by a stray punch or elbow. Both Oliver and Ray wanted to do as much as they could themselves, so they’re running through a last-minute rehearsal with Maseo and their stunt doubles to make sure they’ve got it down before the camera starts rolling.

Curtis wanders over to where Caitlin and Felicity are sitting, twisting the cap off a bottle of coconut water. “Hey, what are you guys—” He follows their gazes and stops. “Doing,” he finishes distractedly.

“Talking about how much we love our jobs,” Caitlin says with another sigh.

“Mmmm, I heard that.” Curtis sinks down next to Felicity, his attention riveted by the action in the ring. “Who do y’all think is hotter—Oliver or Ray?”

“Oliver,” Caitlin says without hesitation.

Felicity swivels her head to look at her, eyebrows raised. Caitlin shrugs at her.

“What about you?” Curtis asks, elbowing Felicity.

“They’re both nice to look at,” she says noncommittally.

“After a thorough scientific analysis and much consideration, I’m think I’m going to have to go with Ray,” Curtis says.

“Really?” Felicity says. “Ray?”

Curtis lifts an eyebrow. “I thought they were both nice to look at.”

“Oliver smells really good,” Caitlin points out. “Have you noticed that?”

Felicity definitely has, but she chooses not to comment.

“True,” Curtis agrees, “but Ray’s taller, which is important when you’re my height. And Oliver’s got that tiny bootie.”

Felicity tilts her head slightly as she watches Oliver dodge one of Ray’s punches. “You think it’s tiny?”

She doesn’t consider Oliver’s ass small—it fills out the boxing shorts he’s wearing quite nicely—but she supposes it is smaller than Ray’s, which looks like two bowling balls in a hammock. Oliver’s just leaner than Ray overall, but Felicity prefers that, to be honest. Ray’s so muscular he’s verging into bodybuilder territory, which has never been to her taste.

Not much about Ray is to her taste, to be honest. He’s gorgeous and perfectly nice, but whenever she’s talking to him she can’t help wishing she was talking to someone else.

Curtis shrugs. “I’m an ass man, what can I say?”

“I like Oliver’s scruff,” Caitlin says. Her eyes shift to the side of the ring where Ronnie’s watching the action, and her smile gets wider. “I like it on Ronnie, too.”

“Scruff’s good,” Felicity agrees.

“All that friction,” Caitlin says, nodding. “Totally adds to the sensation.”

Curtis swings his head around, eyes widening. “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

“What?” Caitlin says innocently.

“Y’all are nasty!” Curtis cackles. “I love it.”

There’s a cry of pain from the ring where the actors are rehearsing, and when Felicity looks over, Oliver is on the floor, curled up on his side.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Ow. _Dammit._ ” He rolls onto his back, and there’s blood all over his face.

“Oh, damn, that looks bad,” Curtis says, wincing.

Felicity stands up and moves closer as Maseo and Diggle rush to Oliver’s side.

“Aww, jeez, I’m sorry, man,” Ray says, standing over him in horror.

A small crowd forms around Oliver, and Felicity hangs around the edges, just outside the ropes, while the EMT, McKenna, comes over to examine Oliver.

“I’m fine,” Oliver grumbles while she checks him for signs of a concussion. “He didn’t hit me that hard.” With all that blood running down his face he looks terrifying and not at all fine.

“Hard enough to make you bleed like a stuck pig,” McKenna says, feeling along the ridge of his nose.

Oliver winces. “I’m a bleeder. It’ll stop on its own in a few minutes.”

McKenna stuffs cotton in his nose to absorb the blood and cleans up his face. Then she hands him a cold pack and announces that nothing’s broken and he should be fine.

“Thank god for small favors,” Diggle mutters. He and Maseo help Oliver off the floor and out of the ring. “Let’s get a wheelchair over here to get him back to his trailer,” he orders Roy.

“No need,” Oliver mumbles from underneath his cold pack. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Diggle growls. “Ronnie will stand in for you today and we’ll make up the close-ups another day.”

“We don’t have the location another day,” Oliver points out.

“That’s my problem,” Diggle says.

Oliver shakes his head. “I’m telling you I’m fine, and I’m going to do this scene myself. Today.”

“You are one stubborn motherfucker,” Diggle grumbles, but he’s grinning when he says it.

Oliver makes his way to the folding chairs set up around the ring and sinks into one of them, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“Everybody disperse and give the man some peace,” Diggle orders the small crowd that’s gathered around. He claps Oliver on the shoulder. “I’ll check back with you in ten,” he says, before dragging the location manager off to confer about the possibility of getting the gym for a little longer.

Almost everyone manages to find somewhere else to be except Ray, who hovers over Oliver, wringing his hands and apologizing profusely.

“It’s fine, man,” Oliver tells him. “It happens.” There’s an edge to his voice, like he’s trying to be polite but it’s taking a lot of effort.

Felicity decides to do both of them a favor. “Hey, Ray,” she says, walking over to them. “I think Barry was looking for you.” She feels a little bad for throwing Barry under the bus like that, but it’s for a good cause.

“Oh, okay,” Ray says uncertainly. “You sure you’re all right?” he asks Oliver, obviously reluctant to leave him.

“It’s fine. Go,” Oliver tells him, barely biting back a growl.

“Last I saw he was out by the trailers in the parking lot,” Felicity offers helpfully. She’s pretty sure Barry’s actually in the locker room they’re using as a holding area for the extras, so that should keep Ray busy for at least a few minutes.

Ray wanders off, and Oliver opens one eye to peer at Felicity. “Thank you for that.”

“You okay?”

He closes his eye again. “I’ll live. Believe it or not, this is not the first time I’ve been punched in the face.”

“Shocking.”

He smiles faintly. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”

“No.”

He opens one eye again.

“Maybe a little,” she admits.

His smile gets wider and he shuts his eye again.

A bead of perspiration drips off his chin and travels down the valley between his pecs. Felicity’s close enough to him that she can smell the musky tang of his sweat, mingled with the woodsy scent of his cologne and the sharper, coppery odor of blood.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

“Not as much as some things.”

She wonders what he means by that, what could have hurt him more than being punched in the nose, but she doesn’t dare ask. “Can I get you anything?” she asks instead.

“I’m good, thanks.”

She starts to move away, but Oliver lifts his head and catches her by the wrist. “Keep me company?”

“Okay.” She sits down beside him. “Put your head back.”

He does, and closes his eyes again. He’s bare chested and his abs are looking magnificent, but Felicity can’t take her eyes off his hand—the one that was wrapped around her wrist a few seconds ago. It’s resting on his thigh, in easy reach, and she thinks about holding it. He’s injured, and he asked her to sit with him. She wonders if it might be okay to hold his hand under the circumstances. She thinks she might like to. A little too much, maybe.

“Hey, man,” Roy says, coming up behind her and holding out Oliver’s gray hoodie. “Thought you might want your hoodie.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Oliver sits up and lets Roy help him into it.

“Your phone’s in the pocket,” Roy says. “You need anything else?”

“No, I’m all set.” Oliver zips the hoodie up and settles back with his ice pack again.

“Give a shout if you change your mind.” Roy gives Felicity a nod before shuffling off.

“Take a picture of me,” Oliver says, slipping his phone out of his pocket and nudging Felicity with it.

“What?”

“I want to post a picture of my busted face.”

Felicity can’t imagine why, but she dutifully takes the phone from him.

His lock screen is a picture of him with his arm around a beautiful young woman in a crop top. It looks like maybe they’re in a bar or a nightclub, but it’s hard to tell.

“The passcode’s 1234,” Oliver tells her.

Felicity shakes her head as she keys in the numbers. “I can’t believe you. You know how stupid that is, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m too lazy to memorize anything else.”

When the phone unlocks, it opens onto a thread of text messages from someone named Tommy. She assumes it’s Tommy Merlyn, and exits out of the messaging app before she can accidentally read any of them.

Oliver’s wallpaper is set to the same photo as his lock screen.

“Who’s the girl?” Felicity asks, trying to sound casual, as she searches for his camera among all the apps.

“My sister, Thea.”

“Ah.” She hates herself a little for being so relieved to hear that.

“She’s at NYU film school. I told her not to get into the business, but …” He shrugs. “She never listens to me.”

“That’s little sisters for you, I guess. Or so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know myself, being an only child.” Felicity holds up the phone, focusing on Oliver’s face. “Ready?”

He sits up and lowers the ice pack. His nose is bright red and there’s a bloody cotton ball hanging out of one of his nostrils. It looks like his right eye might be starting to bruise, too. “Get in nice and tight,” he tells her.

“If you say so.” Felicity snaps the picture and holds it up for his approval.

He grins. “Awesome. Instagram it for me?”

She navigates to his Instagram app and opens up the photo. “Filter preference?”

“No filter.”

“Caption?”

He chews on his lower lip while he thinks about it. “There’s no good way to get punched in the face.”

Felicity nods as she types it in.

“Make sure you cross post it to Twitter, too.”

“Done.” She holds out his phone.

When he reaches for it, his hand closes over hers, and his thumb lightly strokes across her knuckles. “Thanks.”

“Bleeding stop yet?” Caitlin asks, appearing out of nowhere with her makeup kit, and Felicity jerks her hand away from Oliver’s.

He pulls the bloody cotton out of his nostril and carefully scrunches his nose. “I think so.”

“Let’s see the damage,” Caitlin says, tipping his chin up for a better look.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

Caitlin smiles. “It’s fine.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered,” she says, twisting open a pot of concealer.

Felicity leaves them alone so Caitlin can work her magic.

 


	6. Chapter 6

They’re shooting on a street in the Irish Channel Friday with Ray and some minor cast members. Oliver’s not on the call sheet at all, which means the lucky bastard gets a three-day weekend. Which is probably for the best, since he was developing a nice shiner by the end of the day yesterday from his run-in with Ray’s elbow. They got the boxing scene in the can, though, and Oliver managed to do all the closeups himself, just like he said he would. Hopefully by Monday the bruising will have faded.

Based on the running commentary Oliver texts Felicity on the trashy daytime television he’s watching, it sounds like he’s really making the most of his day off.

The weather’s gorgeous for shooting outdoors, but the day seems to drag without Oliver on set. Which is a feeling that Felicity firmly refuses to interrogate. It’s Caitlin’s birthday, though, so there’s cake at lunch. And they make plans to take her out for drinks after work, which gives Felicity something to look forward to at the end of it.

One of the locals on the makeup crew suggests a bar in the Bywater, and it turns out to be a great little place with a patio out back and a low-key jazz trio playing original music. A bunch of the cast and crew members show up, and they end up taking over two long tables out on the patio.

Felicity texted Oliver the details earlier in the day, just in case he wanted to drop by and wish Caitlin a happy birthday. Not that she actually expects him to or anything. Even so, she can’t help looking toward the door every time someone new comes in.

“I know what you’re doing,” Iris says, leaning over and elbowing Felicity in the ribs.

“Ow! Your elbows are like pointy sticks,” Felicity complains. “And I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re watching for Oliver.”

“I am not watching for Oliver, because he’s not coming.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he never comes out for drinks with the crew.”

“Is that so?” Iris says smugly. “Then how come he just walked in?”

Felicity swivels her head around so fast she almost pulls a muscle. Oliver is indeed standing over by the door talking to Roy. His eyes find hers and he casually nods a greeting. Felicity waves back and then turns abruptly away as she feels her face turn bright pink.

“What were you saying?” Iris asks, smirking at her.

“Shut up,” Felicity says, reaching for her drink.

Iris turns her attention back to Oliver, looking him up and down in undisguised appreciation. “He is a fine-looking man, I’ll give him that.”

“Don’t stare at him like that,” Felicity hisses. “He’s not a piece of meat.”

Iris snorts. “You can’t tell me you don’t want to lick those abs. I mean, _I_ want to lick those abs.”

“Maybe a little,” Felicity admits. “Purely as a scientific exercise.”

“Hey,” Oliver says behind her.

Felicity mostly manages not to choke on her drink. Sort of.

“Oliver!” Iris says perkily. “How’s your nose?”

“Still a little tender, but it’s better.”

“I didn’t think we’d see you tonight.”

“I couldn’t miss Caitlin’s birthday,” he says. “I owe her a birthday drink. Speaking of which … I need to go talk to the bartender.” His hand falls on Felicity’s shoulder and squeezes briefly before he moves off.

“That was super smooth,” Iris tells Felicity, “the way you turned bright red and didn’t say anything to him at all.”

“My drink went down the wrong way, I was busy trying not to asphyxiate, okay?”

Iris sips her beer, studying Felicity over the rim of her glass. “Oh, shit. You’re not just in lust, you actually _like_ him.”

“I—what? No. Absolutely not. Do I look delusional to you?”

Iris’ forehead wrinkles. “Is this a trick question?”

“I don’t date actors,” Felicity says firmly. “Actors are like toddlers, only with bulging biceps and winning smiles and abs you can grate cheese on. But still: toddlers. They are not dating material.”

“Uh huh,” Iris says, not buying it. “You better watch yourself, girl. That is a minefield you’re thinking of plowing into.”

“I’m not plowing anything—and yes, I heard it,” she says, rolling her eyes as Iris snorts with laughter. “I promise you, I have no feelings for Oliver Queen, other than a healthy appreciation for a well-sculpted body.”

“That’s why you two are always texting each other like a couple of high-schoolers, I guess.”

Felicity shrugs. “We live next door to each other, we’re friendly. But that’s it. Our relationship is completely professional and platonic.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Iris takes Felicity’s hand in hers and squeezes it sympathetically. “I had no idea you had it this bad.”

Felicity pulls her hand out of Iris’ grasp. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Iris says, growing serious. “Because that man is dangerously hot, and as much as he’s been flirting with you—”

“He has not been flirting with me,” Felicity insists.

Iris lets out an exasperated sigh. “You can’t possibly be this obtuse. Bringing you beignets, loaning you his hat—”

“Okay, fine, he’s flirty, but that’s just how he is with everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Felicity!”

“It doesn’t! I’m telling you, I am not interested in Oliver Queen and he is _definitely_ not interested in _me_.”

She knows full well that as soon as this shoot is over, she and Oliver will go their separate ways and probably never see or talk to each other again, unless they happen to end up working on another project together one day. That’s just how set relationships work. Whatever friendship they might have now is only temporary—a relationship of convenience. Real, lasting friendships, like the one she has with Iris, are the exception, not the rule.

Iris rolls her eyes. “Just because you refuse to let yourself see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Look, don’t get me wrong, the man is sex on two legs, and given the chance I would definitely rock that like a hurricane. But you are not me, my friend.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t separate sex from emotion, and you know I’m right about that.”

It’s true that Felicity has never once been in a non-serious relationship with a guy. She always ends up getting attached to the men she sleeps with. It’s not that she’s opposed to casual sex on principle, but in actual practice, she doesn’t get the appeal. She likes the middle part of relationships better than the beginning. The comfortable part, when you already know each other and can relax and enjoy being together. All that stuff at the beginning—the getting to know each other part, the making someone like you part—it’s an awful lot of work. And she doesn’t see the point of doing all that work for someone she’s not interested in keeping around.

But maybe she’s missing out. Maybe there’s something to be said for casual. For not getting attached.

“Hey, that’s not a criticism,” Iris says. “It’s one of the things that makes you the precious unicorn I love and would die to protect.”

Felicity shakes her head. “Anyway, none of that matters, because no one’s having sex with anyone.”

“Speak for yourself,” Iris says, her gaze moving to Barry.

“Fine,” Felicity grumbles. “ _I’m_ not having sex with anyone.”

Iris links her arm with Felicity’s and drags her out of her seat. “Come on, let’s go get shots.”

***

A half an hour and two rounds of shots later, Iris is boldly flirting with Barry, Caitlin is getting seriously cozy with Ronnie, Oliver seems to have chatted up half the women at the bar, and Felicity is trapped in a conversation with Ray. Story of her life, really.

Ray is being super tactile and flirty tonight—far flirtier even than Oliver in extra charming mode—which is weird, because he’s not usually a touchy person in general. Not only is he punctuating every point he makes by touching her arm or her hand or her shoulder, but in the middle of telling her a story about the last film he worked on, one of his hands lands on her knee and just sort of stays there, lightly squeezing her thigh.

When it’s clear he’s not going to remove it on his own, Felicity lifts his hand off her leg and drops it back into his lap. He’s so engrossed in the story he’s telling he doesn’t seem to notice, but he steers clear of resting his hands on her thighs after that—although he keeps doing the above-the-waist casual touches. He’s had a few drinks, which she assumes is a contributing factor in this new, flirtier Ray, but she hasn’t noticed him doing it with anyone else tonight. In fact, he’s spent most of his time at the bar with his attention focused on her.

Felicity is not super great with social cues, but she’s not stupid. She knows that she could probably go home with Ray tonight if she reciprocated his flirting.

If she wanted to try casual sex, this would be a great opportunity. He’s gorgeous, and more importantly he seems sweet. The actor thing is not a selling point—she’s dated actors before and promised herself she’d never make that mistake again—but if it’s just for one night, she supposes she could make an exception.

The problem is that when Felicity tries to visualize herself having sex with Ray she comes up blank. She literally can’t imagine it. Every time she tries, her brain goes somewhere else, like he’s so boring he can’t even hold her attention in her imagination.

See, this is why she doesn’t do casual sex. She can’t be bothered to make the effort.

Mercifully, after another ten minutes, the drinks finally catch up with him, and Ray excuses himself to go to the men’s room. Felicity breathes a sigh of relief when Curtis takes his seat.

Iris, who happens to be her ride, is deep in flirt with Barry at the other end of the table, so Felicity catches the waitress’ attention and orders herself another beer. When she brings it a few minutes later, she hands Felicity back her credit card.

“Oh, I’m not ready to close out my tab yet.”

“It’s taken care of,” the waitress says.

“By who?”

“Oliver Queen had me transfer all the tabs in your party onto his card.” She leans in close and lowers her voice. “He’s like, _crazy_ hot in person, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Felicity agrees, watching Oliver flirt with one of the girls in the hair department. “He’s dreamy.”

***

By midnight, Caitlin and Ronnie have left together, Ray has shifted his attentions to one of the makeup assistants, and Felicity is beyond ready to go home. But Iris and Barry are still gazing into each other’s eyes like a couple of lovestruck idiots, and Felicity’s actually really happy for them, so she guesses she can stick it out a while longer for Iris’ sake.

“Hey,” Oliver says, sliding into the chair next her.

“Hey,” Felicity says back. It’s the first time she’s talked to him since he first got there—when she almost choked to death and didn’t manage to get any words out.

“Want another drink?” he asks with a nod at her mostly-empty pint glass.

“Nooo,” she says, pushing her glass away. “I’ve had enough.” She’s already had like four beers tonight. Or maybe five. Plus all those shots. It’s possible she’s a little drunk.

He tilts his head sideways, smiling at her. “You okay there?”

“Yep.” She nods to show him just how okay she is. “I’m great.” Okay, that’s too much nodding, because now the room’s starting to spin a little. Only they’re not in a room, they’re outside, so it’s like the whole world is doing the spinning. Yeah, not great.

“Have you had any water tonight?” Oliver asks.

“Nope, just beer. And whatever’s in a buttery nipple. That’s a gross name for a drink, isn’t it? Buttery nipple. What do you think’s in it?”

“Too much sugar, that’s what. Here.” He puts his drink in her hand. “Drink this.”

Felicity squints at the clear liquid. “What is it?”

“Club soda with lime.”

She sips it tentatively. Definitely club soda with lime. Blech. She hates club soda.

When she tries to hand it back to him he shakes his head. “Finish it, you need the hydration.”

Felicity reluctantly takes another sip of Oliver’s yucky club soda while he flags down the waitress to order a glass of water. It’s funny how, even though she’s covering half the tables on the patio, their waitress just happens to be hovering nearby, ready to leap into action the second Oliver looks like he might need something. She calls him “honey,” too, and touches his shoulder briefly before she leaves to get the water. Gross.

Oliver turns back to Felicity, and his knee bumps against her leg. “Are you having a good time?”

She nods, more carefully this time. “Yep. Thanks for picking up the tab, by the way, that was nice.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing.

His leg’s still resting against hers, all solid and warm and muscular inside his expensive designer jeans. She can feel the heat radiating off of him through her own jeans, and it sets her stomach fluttering in a way that doesn’t have anything at all to do with being drunk. His thigh is _right there_ ; it would be so easy to rest her hand on it. But then she remembers Ray and his thigh-touching and how unwelcome it was. _No touching the platonic coworkers,_ she reminds herself.

Felicity clears her throat. “I was surprised you came out tonight.”

Oliver’s eyebrows jump up slightly. “Why?”

“You didn’t answer my text.” She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to hang out in a bar.”

They’re sitting really close, and she’s not sure how that happened. Did he lean into her or did she lean into him? They’re close enough that she can count his eyelashes, and all the different shades of purple in the bruise under his eye. She’s not used to being quite this close to him, and it makes her feel dizzy.

“I wasn’t sure, either,” he admits. “But I’m glad I did.”

“Me, too,” she blurts out. It’s a little more honesty than she intended—stupid alcohol—and she squeezes her eyes shut as she feels a flush creeping up her throat. “I mean, I’m glad you’re glad. I’m glad you’re having a good time. I mean, you _seem_ to be having a good, anyway. _Are_ you having a good time?” Ugh. What is she _doing?_

“I am,” Oliver says, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Great. She’s so glad he finds her _amusing._ That’s perfect. Exactly what she was going for.

His gaze lingers on her, and the amusement shifts into something else entirely—something unexpectedly intense. Felicity feels herself starting to flush again under the weight of it, but then Oliver’s attention shifts to the other end of the table, where the rest of their party is sitting. “I missed this,” he says, something wistful and a little sad in his voice.

“What?”

“The sense of community you get from working on a set. The way it bonds you. The connection with other people.” He looks down at his lap, and she sees his jaw tighten. “My life was pretty empty when I wasn’t working.”

“I’m sorry.” She reaches for his hand without thinking. By the time she realizes she’s done it, it’s too late to take it back because his fingers have tightened around hers, trapping her.

He looks down at their intertwined hands and shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m just glad to have it again. And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

Felicity’s forehead furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the one that encouraged me to stop pushing people away.”

She huffs out a soft laugh. “If by encouraged, you mean I yelled at you, then yes, I definitely did do that.”

He smiles at her, wide enough to show off his dimples. “Whatever you did, it was exactly what I needed.”

The way he’s looking at her is really a lot. It’s probably just the alcohol, making everything feel more intense, but it’s like this concentrated beam of hotness directed straight at her.

The waitress comes back with the water, and Felicity slips her hand out of Oliver’s. She gulps down half of it in one go, trying to cool herself off.

“Easy,” Oliver warns, watching her with one eyebrow slightly raised.

“I’m fine,” Felicity says, and then winces, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Ow, brainfreeze.”

“Hey, “Iris says, tapping her on the shoulder.

Felicity opens her eyes and twists around to look at Iris, who’s taken the chair on her other side. “Yep?”

“You okay?” Iris asks, frowning.

“Yep,” Felicity says again, popping the P for extra emphasis. “Just a little brainfreeze.” She holds up her glass of ice water for illustrative purposes.

“So … I’m going to take Barry home,” Iris says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at Barry. He’s standing a few feet away with his hands shoved in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not totally about to go have sex with Iris. “But I’ll drop you off first, okay?”

“No, no, no,” Felicity says, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do that, I’ll just call a cab.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “You’re not calling a cab. I’m your ride, and I’m taking you home.”

“Iris,” Felicity hisses, wrapping her hand around her friend’s wrist and tugging her closer. “I am not getting in the way of you and Barry. That’s not what friends do.”

“Felicity,” Iris hisses back. “I am not abandoning you at a bar. _That’s_ not what friends do.”

“How about if I take her home?” Oliver interjects.

Felicity spins around, eyes widening. “Oh, no! You don’t have to—”

“You’re literally right next door to me,” he says. “It couldn’t be less out of my way.”

“I don’t know,” Iris says, frowning at Oliver.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” he says without a trace of mockery. He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Iris looks at Felicity. “Are you okay with this, sweetie? Because if you’re not—”

“It’s fine,” Felicity assures her. “As long as Oliver doesn’t mind, I don’t mind.”

Iris turns back to Oliver, and her eyes narrow dangerously. “You know I will kill you if anything happens to her, right? Like, I will literally murder you.”

“Noted,” Oliver says, drawing back a little.

Iris leans in to hug Felicity. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?” she whispers.

“I won’t,” Felicity whispers back. “Now go. Have fun with Barry.”

She watches Iris walk over to Barry and take his hand. They’re positively beaming at each other, and it’s pretty much the cutest thing she’s ever seen.

“Do you want to stay?” Oliver asks. “Or are you ready to take off?”

“I’m fine with whatever,” Felicity says, turning back to him and stifling a yawn.

He smiles. “Just let me go pay the tab and we’ll go.”

***

Oliver’s rented Audi has really comfortable seats. Much more comfortable than the Hyundai Accent the production rented for Felicity. His Audi is so comfortable, in fact, that she accidentally falls asleep on the ride home. One minute she’s looking out the window at the beautiful old houses they’re driving past, and the next Oliver’s opened her door and is gently shaking her awake. “We’re here. Think you can walk?”

“Yeah, of course,” Felicity insists, jumping out of the car. A little too quickly, because as soon as she stands up she feels lightheaded and her vision starts to tunnel.

Oliver’s hands shoot out to steady her. “I’ve got you,” he says, slipping an arm around her.

Felicity lets herself lean into him until her vision clears. And then she keeps leaning into him and lets him guide her to the house, because he’s warm and comfy and it’s a chilly night. His body’s crazy firm, but also somehow snuggly, which doesn’t seem like it should be possible, but there he is, being snuggly and firm at the same time.

As soon as they get to her front door, Oliver lets go of her and takes a step back. The sudden loss of contact leaves her cold.

“Do you have your key?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She digs in her purse for it and unlocks the door. When she turns back to him, it feels like he’s standing even farther away than before, like he wants to make sure she doesn’t get any wrong ideas about his intentions.

Message received. Loud and clear.

“Thanks for the ride,” Felicity says, being careful not to close the distance between them.

“Drink some water before bed, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, frowning at her.

She offers him a smile. “I can tell. You know how I can tell? Because you’re making your serious face, which is totally different from your just joking around face.”

“Promise me,” he says earnestly. God, he’s _extra_ hot when he’s being a mother hen. It’s so unfair.

“I promise,” she says with a long-suffering sigh.

He steps forward and wraps her up in a cushy hug. “Goodnight, Felicity,” he says against her hair before letting go of her and stepping decisively away from her again.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles and flees inside her house.

_We’re just friends_ , she tells herself firmly as she stands in the kitchen drinking the promised glass of water. He made that pretty abundantly clear tonight. Friends. Nothing more.

Maybe if she repeats it to herself enough, she’ll actually accept it.

Ten minutes later, as she’s crawling into bed, he sends her a text.

_Did u drink water?_

She rolls her eyes as she types her answer. _Yes, mom._

_Good girl,_ he replies with a smiley face. _Now go to bed._

She does.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Monday is Sara Lance’s first day on set. She’s playing Oliver’s character’s love interest, and is ostensibly the female lead, but she’s only needed for the second half the shoot, because she’s not actually in that many scenes. Incidentally, there are only two women in the entire cast: Sara and another woman named Nyssa, who’s playing an assassin. (Because fuck Hollywood, that’s why.)

It’s all a little weird, because Sara is the sister of Laurel Lance, who famously happens to be Oliver’s former Disney Channel co-star and ex-fiancée. Oliver and Laurel were one of Hollywood’s favorite couples for a while—they even had one of those ridiculous portmanteau names (“Lauriver,” ugh)—until they went through a very public, very _messy_ breakup after some much-publicized philandering on his part. Oliver did not come out of it smelling like a rose, and some people point to their breakup as the beginning of his downward spiral.

And now Laurel’s little sister is playing Oliver’s love interest. _And_ they’ve got a fairly explicit sex scene to film later in the week. So, yeah. Weird.

But acting’s a weird job on a lot of levels. Hollywood is pretty incestuous in general—it’s like a small town, where everyone knows everyone else, or at least knows _someone_ who knows everyone—so this kind of thing happens more often than you’d think. They’re all professionals, though, so it’ll be fine.

Probably.

The first time Felicity meets her, Sara’s in her underwear. It’s her wardrobe for the scene she’s filming that morning—because fuck Hollywood, that’s why—and holy moly, talk about abs you can grate cheese on. Usually, when the wardrobe’s that revealing, the actors cover up with a robe between takes, but Sara doesn’t seem to feel the need. Not that Felicity can blame her. Sara’s body is _insane_. If Felicity had a body like that she’d walk around naked _all the time_.

In addition to having the body of a fitness model, Sara’s got long, beautiful blonde hair, stunning blue eyes, and an adorable dimpled smile. She’s a walking nightmare, basically. Except she’s also really, really nice.

She makes a point of introducing herself to Felicity right away, and telling her that she’s looking forward to working together. And then she very ungracefully adjusts her boobs in the beautiful lace bra she’s wearing and says, “Jesus, this thing feels like it’s lined with nails. Why can’t anyone make sexy underwear that doesn’t feel like punishment?” After that, Felicity can’t help but like her.

Sara goes out of her way to make friends with the rest of the crew, too—even the extras, which she definitely does not have to do. Sara Lance’s star is on the rise, and she’s been working more regularly than Oliver recently, even if she doesn’t have quite his level of name recognition yet. Given his insurance situation, it’s pretty likely she’s actually being paid more than he is for this film. But despite the fact that she’s on track to be the next Jennifer Lawrence, Sara is unpretentious, down-to-earth, and generally sweet to everyone.

Even Oliver, when he finally shows up to set.

Felicity was a little worried, honestly, about how the two of them were going to get along. She wasn’t sure how Oliver would react to having someone from one of the more unsavory chapters his past around, and if Sara was holding a grudge over the way Oliver treated her sister, it could make for a lot of awkwardness on set.

But not only is there no evidence of any tension between the two of them, they’re as chummy as old friends. Or more-than-old friends, even.

“Am I crazy, or is he flirting with her?” Caitlin asks, watching Oliver and Sara on the other side of the soundstage. Sara’s changed into actual clothes for her second scene of the day—thank God—and they’re sitting next to each other with their heads bent together, laughing about something on Sara’s phone. Oliver’s arm is draped across the back of Sara’s chair, and his hand is resting on her shoulder.

“He’s definitely flirting with her,” Iris says, pursing her lips in disapproval.

“They’re flirting with _each other_ ,” Felicity says when Sara reaches over and squeezes Oliver’s thigh.

She wants to look away, but she can’t seem to make herself stop watching them. Oliver’s smiling, like _really_ smiling, and he looks more relaxed than Felicity’s ever seen him. He leans in close to whisper something in Sara’s ear, and whatever it is must be hilarious, because she throws her head back and lets out a peal of laughter. “Ollie!” she shrieks, punching him in the arm. “You’re terrible!”

That’s right. She calls him “Ollie.” And he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Caitlin wrinkles her nose in distaste. “He was engaged to her _sister_. Isn’t that kind of … skeevy?”

“Super skeevy,” Iris agrees. She shoots a sympathetic look at Felicity. “Sorry. I guess I was wrong.”

“I’m not,” Felicity says, determinedly ignoring the knot in the pit of her stomach. “I told you it was nothing.”

“I’m still sorry,” Iris says.

***

Sara has to eat a donut in the scene she’s shooting with Oliver in the afternoon (because women who look like fitness models definitely eat donuts all the time). Scenes with food are always a nightmare for continuity, because the food keeps getting eaten, and Felicity has to make sure it’s eaten the exact same amount in every take, from every angle. Which means props needs to have a lot of identical donuts on hand, and Sara has to keep taking bites out of them.

On the third take of the two shot, Sara gets a smear of chocolate on her face when she bites into the donut.

“You’ve got a little something—” Oliver says while they’re still rolling. He points at Sara’s cheek, playing it off in character. “Right there.”

“That’s not in the script,” Felicity whispers. Beside her, Diggle nods absently, but he lets it play out.

Without breaking character, Sara ducks her head shyly and makes a moue. “Where?”

Oliver tips her chin up, the barest hint of a smile playing across his lips, and swipes his thumb across her cheek.

“ _So_ not in the script,” Felicity mutters.

“Did you get it?” Sara asks, blinking up at Oliver through her lashes.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly bring his thumb to his lips and licks the chocolate off. “Got it.”

It’s pretty much the most sensual thing Felicity’s ever seen. Their chemistry on screen is _outrageous,_ and Diggle’s grinning like he just got the best Christmas present ever. “Print that,” he says excitedly. “Did you get the new dialogue?”

Felicity nods as she makes a note in her script.

She got it, all right.

***

On Tuesday, Diggle shows up on set looking like someone peed in his oatmeal.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity asks, eying him warily.

He sighs, lowering himself heavily into his chair. “We’re getting new script pages today.”

“Okay.” It’s late in the game to be tweaking the script, but it’s not completely unheard of. Based on the way Diggle’s frowning, she assumes there’s more to it.

He leans forward and sets his coffee cup on the floor while he digs around in his messenger bag. “For tomorrow morning’s scene.”

That’s … not a lot of notice.

“I thought you were happy with that scene as is,” Felicity says, frowning.

Diggle pops two ibuprofen and swallows them down with a mouthful of coffee. “I am. This is coming from the studio.”

Which means there was a fight over it. And Diggle lost. No wonder he’s pissed.

“Does Oliver know?”

“He will soon enough.”

Felicity chews on the inside of her lip. “He’s not going to like it.”

“ _I_ don’t like it,” Diggle says. “He can take a number.”

When Oliver comes in a couple hours later, Felicity intercepts him on his way to his trailer. “Did you hear about the new pages?”

He nods. “Diggle texted me this morning.” He doesn’t seem that pissed about it, which is good. Non-pissed Oliver is much easier to deal with than pissed Oliver.

“I’ll have to stay a little late tonight to update my breakdown for the morning,” she says, “but I can come over and help you learn the new lines when I get home.”

He lays his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate that, but you don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.”

He lets go of her. “No, I mean—Sara’s going to come over and work with me.”

“Oh,” Felicity says. “That’s great.”

Sara must be one of the close friends who knows about his learning disability. Which totally makes sense. She was practically family at one point, after all. And she’s got to memorize the new dialogue, too, so they might as well kill two birds with one stone. It’s a great plan. The best plan.

Oliver runs his hand through his hair, making it stand up all spiky on top. “Thank you, though. I really do appreciate the offer.”

Felicity shrugs. “I’m glad you’ve got someone else to help.”

“Sorry,” he says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta run and get changed into wardrobe. I’ll talk to you later, though?”

“Sure,” she says to his back as he walks away.

***

It’s not that Felicity is jealous. Jealousy is about someone else taking what you have. And it’s not like she ever _had_ Oliver. Far from it.

If anything, she’s happy for him. It’s great that all of Oliver and Sara’s scenes together sizzle with sexual tension. And it’s great that they get along so well off camera, too. She’s glad he has someone on set he feels comfortable with. She is. Couldn’t be happier. Honestly.

It’s just … she’s gotten kind of used to being the person Oliver’s comfortable with on set.

But now Sara’s helping him learn his lines, and she’s calling him “Ollie,” and he hasn’t texted Felicity in two days.

It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s not like she had a claim on him anyway. She always knew their friendship wasn’t meant to last.

Just because Oliver’s good at making you feel special, it doesn’t mean you are.

***

Wednesday morning, Felicity is rushing to choke down a bagel before work when there’s a knock on Oliver’s side of the adjoining door. She swallows the bite in her mouth and does a quick check of her reflection in the toaster to make sure there’s no cream cheese in her teeth before opening it.

It’s not Oliver—it’s Sara.

Wearing Oliver’s Camaro T-shirt and nothing else. Nothing else that Felicity can see, anyway. Oliver’s T-shirt hangs down to halfway to Sara’s knees, so it’s impossible to tell if she’s wearing underwear. God, please let her be wearing underwear. If she’s not, Felicity does not want to know.

“Hey!” Sara says in a voice that is way too perky for six in the morning. Somehow, even with bed head and no makeup she still manages to look stunning, because of course she does.

Felicity snaps her mouth closed and tries to smile, like it’s nothing to her that Sara is at Oliver’s house first thing in the morning. That Sara is wearing his clothes. That they apparently spent the night together.

“Um, hi,” she manages in what she hopes is a normal, friendly tone.

“Ollie doesn’t have any milk,” Sara says.

Felicity stares at her blankly. Her brain is still trying to process this new information that Sara and Oliver are sleeping together, and it’s functioning on a bit of a delay.

“He doesn’t do dairy,” Sara goes on, “and _I_ don’t do coffee without cream.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. “But he said you might have some,” she adds hopefully when Felicity doesn’t say anything.

That’s when Felicity finally notices the steaming coffee mug in Sara’s hand. “Right, sure, of course. Come in.” She steps back and waves Sara inside. “Sorry, I’m not quite awake yet.”

“Your place is cute,” Sara says, peering around as she follows Felicity into the kitchen. “It kinda matches Ollie’s.”

“Yeah, I guess they were built at the same time or something.” Felicity leans into the fridge for the half and half and hands it to Sara.

“Thanks.” Sara pours a generous dollop into her coffee and offers it back.

“Keep it,” Felicity says. “I’ve got another one.”

That’s a lie, but she can’t face the thought of Sara stopping by to borrow cream every time she has a sleepover at Oliver’s. She doesn’t want to know that much about Oliver’s sex life—or Sara’s. She doesn’t even want to know as much as she already knows about it.

Sara’s eyebrows lift. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Felicity says, smiling. “Keep it in Oliver’s fridge. You know, for the next time.”

“Okay, well, thanks.” Sara shrugs and takes her coffee creamer and her attractive bed head back over to Oliver’s.

Felicity locks the door behind her and then goes into the kitchen and tosses her bagel in the trash. For some reason she doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.

***

Today is not turning out to be Felicity’s day.

She forgot to gas up her car last night, so she has to stop on the way into work, which she did not allow adequate time for. Then she ends up dripping gasoline on her shoes, which stinks up the inside of her car, which in turn brings on a raging headache. On top of that, she manages to spill most of her coffee down the front of her shirt, so by the time she arrives at work, she’s late, under-caffeinated, covered in coffee, rocking a nauseous headache, and in no mood for anyone’s shit.

Which is when she discovers she left her laptop cord at home.

“AAARRRGH!” Felicity wails, holding her empty laptop bag upside down and shaking it over the desk in her corner of the cramped production office.

“What the hell?” Roy says, eying her warily from the doorway.

Felicity sighs and dumps her laptop bag on the floor, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I forgot my laptop cable.”

“There’s coffee on your shirt,” Roy observes.

“Really?” Felicity snaps, rounding on him. “I hadn’t noticed that I’d poured hot coffee all over my chest, thanks so much for pointing it out.”

Roy takes a step back. “Jeez, someone’s touchy today.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Felicity sinks into her chair and buries her face in her hands. “It’s just been a real Monday, you know?”

“It’s Wednesday,” Roy points out helpfully.

“Yeah, but between the gasoline and the headache and the coffee and the power adapter, it’s feeling a lot more like a Monday.” She pushes herself upright and flips open her laptop. “I’ve got maybe six hours of battery life on this thing, if I’m lucky, which means sometime after lunch I’m not going to be able to do my job anymore.”

Roy regards her silently for a moment, one eyebrow slightly raised. “That’s a MacBook, right?” he says finally. “I can probably scrounge up a power cord for you.”

“That would be … so great,” Felicity says, giving him a watery smile. “Thank you, Roy. You’re my hero.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles, wandering off.

Felicity digs through her purse for a bottle of ibuprofen and swallows two pills down with the dregs of her now-cold coffee. Then she uses up some of her precious battery life to get the script pages and logs ready for the day’s shooting. Once she’s gotten all her prep work out of the way, she goes downstairs and hits up craft services for a fresh cup of coffee before heading out back to the wardrobe trailer.

Iris takes one look at her and starts digging through the racks for a clean shirt while Felicity regales her with the saga of her morning—leaving out the part about Sara and Oliver, because she doesn’t want to spread gossip, but also because she doesn’t want Iris feeling any sorrier for her than she does already. Her bad day doesn’t have anything to do with Oliver and Sara anyway. They’re both free to sleep with whoever they want, it’s no skin off her nose.

By the time they’re ready to start shooting, Felicity has acquired a clean shirt and a borrowed laptop cable that Roy found for her, bless him. Unfortunately, they’re shooting on the bar set today, which means lots of extras on set and lots of drinks. Which means _a lot_ of continuity details to keep track of, and because she only got the script pages yesterday, she’s not as prepared as she likes to be.

“That guy in the red shirt should be standing at the bar,” Felicity tells Barry on the second setup.

“But I wasn’t at the bar on any of the other takes,” Red Shirt says.

“Sorry, did I say red? I meant blue,” Felicity amends.

“Which blue shirt?” Barry asks helplessly. “There are like three.”

“Blue polo. Right there.” Felicity points at the offending extra, who quickly scoots over to the bar.

“Are we good now?” Diggle asks.

Felicity nods. “Yep.”

“All right,” Barry calls out. “Quiet on the set.”

“Wait!” Felicity says. “Sorry! That shaker needs to be on Sara’s right side, not her left.”

The prop guy starts to swoop in to remedy the mistake, but before he can get there, Sara moves the shaker herself. “I got it,” she says. “We cool now?”

Felicity gives the set a thorough once-over to make sure there’s nothing else she missed, before giving the all clear. Barry calls for quiet again, sound and film start rolling, the background actors get their cue, and Diggle calls action.

It’s the scene where Oliver and Sara first meet, and it’s pretty straightforward on paper—Oliver walks into the bar where Sara’s bartending, orders a drink from her, and then questions her about one of the bar’s regular patrons. But because it’s Oliver and Sara, the entire interaction is charged with sexual tension.

Oliver really plays it up, pausing when he first catches sight of Sara and letting his gaze grow heated before he makes his way over to her. When she sees him approaching, Sara makes a purring sound in the back of her throat and arches her back, showing off her boobs. She has spectacular boobs. Natural, too, which is rare for an actress. Everything about Sara is perfect, basically. No wonder Oliver slept with her.

Felicity finds it unreasonably difficult to watch Oliver and Sara acting together now that she knows they’re actually _together_ together. Watching them canoodle and flirt for the camera feels weirdly intimate and intrusive, like she’s peeping through their bedroom window. It’s dumb and irrational, but she can’t help it, and she also can’t look away, because she’s got to watch them in order to do her job.

She is not loving her job today.

When they finally break for lunch, it feels like she’s been at work for sixteen hours instead of six. And because nothing is going her way, catering is serving up corned beef and cabbage, which would be unappealing on a good day, but today, when she’s still feeling nauseous and vaguely headachy, is a big fat nope. So Felicity skips the noise and cabbage smell of the commissary in favor of a little alone time at her desk.

She feels like karma owes her one at this point, but apparently not, because on her way to the production office she rounds a corner and runs smack into Oliver. Like, literally crashes face first into his massive, rock hard chest.

She lets out an embarrassing shriek, more from surprise than pain, and stumbles backwards.

“Whoa,” he says, grabbing onto her upper arms to keep her from falling.

“Sorry!” Felicity’s hands flail out and end up landing on his chest for lack of anywhere else to go.

“Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, just a klutz.”

He’s still holding onto her, and they’re so close they’re practically chest to chest, and she’s paralyzed by the overwhelming _nearness_ of him. His hands slide up her arms to her shoulders, and his eyes roam over her face like he’s looking for evidence of injury or head trauma.

She swallows, suppressing the urge to shiver. “I should really pay more attention to where I’m going,” she says with a nervous laugh. And then realizes that she’s basically caressing his chest, and awkwardly pulls her hands back. “Sorry.”

Oliver finally lets go of her, and she takes a big step backward, exhaling.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yep, still in one piece.” Another nervous laugh slips out.

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Hey, I hope it’s okay that Sara knocked on your door this morning. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I didn’t. Why would I mind?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just wanted to check.”

“Sara’s great! I love Sara! And I happened to have cream for her coffee, so really, it was perfect for everyone.” All of which is true, although she may be overplaying the enthusiasm a tad.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s not quite buying it.

“Okay,” she echoes perkily. “Well, I’m just gonna …” She tilts her head in the direction of her office. “I’m gonna go.”

He nods, and she practically sprints away from him.

***

Felicity muddles her way through the rest of the day, keeping her distance from Oliver as much as possible when they’re not actively working. And he does her the favor of keeping his distance from her, which is just great. Fantastic, even. It’s nice to know her company isn’t wanted anymore now that Sara’s here.

But then Thursday rolls around. The day they’re filming the love scene.

Shooting sex scenes is awkward and uncomfortable under even the best circumstances. Being naked and simulating sex in front of a room full of people can be terrifying and humiliating for the actors, and it’s not nearly as much fun to watch as you might think.

Even though they film the scene on a closed set with only minimal crew, there are usually still at least a dozen people present, so it’s a weirdly public activity. It’s all highly choreographed, every little movement blocked out in advance, so it ends up being very mechanical and not sexy at all. But at the same time, there’s actual skin-to-skin contact happening, and they’re pretending to do something that’s supposed to be intimate, only with a sweaty guy holding a boom mic over their heads, amplifying every little sound.

Acting is a weird job.

Diggle’s already spent a lot of time working with Oliver and Sara, prepping for this scene, so they only do a quick run-through for lighting and sound before the actors go change into wardrobe.

The first half of today involves a lot of kissing and removing of clothing, which requires a lot of intervention from the wardrobe and makeup departments. At the end of every take, they’ve got to get Oliver and Sara redressed and reapply all the makeup they basically just licked off each other’s faces. Gross.

There are only two lines lines of dialogue at the beginning of the scene before they start kissing. And then Oliver takes Sara’s shirt off, revealing her very pretty, very _uncomfortable-looking_ bra. Then more kissing. Then Sara takes Oliver’s shirt off so everyone can see the six-pack he’s been water-cutting for all week. More kissing. He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Kissing. He lays her down and crawls on top of her. Kisses her some more.

There’s just a whole lot of kissing.

And they have to film all of it from every possible angle: closeups, mediums, low angles, over-the-shoulders. It’s a lot of setups and a lot of takes. And in between every one, Diggle is giving them direction on their technique. _More intensity, less tongue, gasp louder._

Honestly, the sounds are maybe the worst part of all of it. Felicity can almost kind of separate herself from what’s happening a few feet away from her when she’s watching through the monitors. Keeping her attention focused on the screen makes it easier to look at the shot clinically and only think about the relevant technical details. But all the gasping and moaning and slurping and smacking sounds coming through the headset and going directly into her brain are a lot harder to ignore.

Plus, there’s the mortifying fact that she has to actually _correct_ the actors from time to time. On the mechanics of their lovemaking.

“Um, Oliver,” she says at the end of a take. “Remember, you need to pull Sara’s bra strap off her shoulder before you start kissing her breasts.”

Yeah. That’s not awkward or anything. Not in the slightest. Especially now that she knows they’re _actually_ sleeping together off screen. Felicity is going to take the longest shower ever when she gets home today.

But Oliver only nods, like this is all totally normal. “Bra strap, then boob. Got it.”

Sara, who’s currently got a makeup assistant cleaning Oliver’s saliva off the boob in question, pokes Oliver in the shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Get it right, sheesh. What are you, an amateur?”

Acting is a _really_ weird job.

Sara seems amazingly unselfconscious about her body, even when it comes time for Oliver to peel off her bra. They’re shooting her tastefully from behind, so all you see is her upper back as he unhooks her bra and takes it off. But she’s sitting in Oliver’s lap at that point, with her legs wrapped around his waist, and his face is basically right in her breasts. She’s wearing nipple covers, but he’s still getting an eyeful. Not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before, apparently. He’s not the only one who can see her, though. There’s a sound guy standing like two feet away from them, and a camera operator right behind her, and the rest of the skeleton crew off to the side.

Felicity can’t even imagine being brave (or confident) enough to do something like that, but Sara seems utterly unfazed by it all. After every take, the wardrobe assistant scoops Sara’s bra off the floor and helps her put it back on in front of everyone. And the whole time, Sara’s just sitting there in Oliver’s lap with her chest in his face, cracking jokes like it’s no big deal.

By the time they break for lunch, they’ve made it to the halfway mark. Which means when they come back, they’re at the part where both actors are completely naked. Well, mostly naked. There’s not going to be any frontal nudity, thank god, so Sara will still be wearing her nipple covers, along with a flesh-colored G-string.

Oliver, on the other hand, has a rather prominent butt shot, so he’ll be wearing something called a modesty pouch. Which is a total misnomer, because it does nothing whatsoever to protect anyone’s modesty or dignity or anything else. It’s basically just a cloth bag with a drawstring—indelicately referred to as a “cock sock”—that the actor stuffs his genitals into to cover them up

Felicity’s not sure how it was decided that Oliver would do nudity and Sara wouldn’t. Whether that was Diggle’s artistic vision or what the studio wanted. Whether Sara’s management put their foot down or Oliver volunteered. She’s not privy to those kinds of conversations, and it’s not the sort of thing she’s going to ask about, although John would probably tell her if she did.

When she first got the script, she was actually gleeful about the prospect of getting an eyeful of Oliver Queen’s ass. Not anymore. Now that she actually _knows_ him, it’s more embarrassing than anything else. Not that she wouldn’t be perfectly happy to see him naked—just not under the current, extremely awkward circumstances. The fact that she’s sitting between Diggle and Martin Stein, and Sara is strutting around looking like a sex goddess, takes a lot of the fun out of it.

Felicity tries really hard to avert her eyes when Oliver takes off his robe, but she can’t help sneaking a peek at him. He’s … yep. _Really_ naked. The modesty sock does not leave much to the imagination. His body is outrageous—all muscly and hard and _wow,_ that water cut is no joke because his abs are popping way out—but it feels wrong to be enjoying the view, so Felicity fixes her gaze on her laptop screen and doesn’t look up again until the actors are in position.

Their position, by the way, is extremely provocative at this point in the scene. Oliver’s on top of Sara, grinding away with his bare ass in the air, while she writhes around beneath him and makes sex noises. And even though all their NC-17 bits are technically covered, there’s still a whole lot of skin-to-skin contact happening. Felicity is deeply uncomfortable, but then so is everyone else in the room, although they’re all trying really hard not to act like it.

Oliver’s backside is just _really_ front-and-center in the frame. It’s impossible not to look at it. And when you’re looking at it, it’s impossible not admire the firm roundness of his glutes, and the perfect curve of his lower back muscles as they meet his hips, which are gyrating in a way that can’t help but make Felicity _feel_ things. And then there’s the matter of his skin, which is smooth and unblemished, with no trace of a tan line. It naturally leads the mind to wonder things, likes whether he had to get his butt waxed, or if he's naturally hairless back there, and whether they used bronzer to get that sun-kissed glow, or if he just sunbathes nude—which are not the sorts of things that Felicity has any business imagining.

Every time they finish a take and Oliver climbs out from between Sara’s legs, Felicity has to forcibly tear her gaze away from him, before she embarrasses herself gaping at the perfect V of his Adonis belt and that one vein in his lower abdomen that snakes down toward—

Yeah. Better just to look away when he’s walking around all distractingly beautiful and so very mostly naked. Keep it professional. Don’t ogle the actors.

“Let’s try it a little faster this time,” Diggle tells them after the first take. “Give me more desperation.”

They do it again, and this time Oliver grinds faster and Sara’s sex noises sound more desperate. It’s … intense.

But Diggle’s still not happy. “Sara, maybe try moving your hands lower. Like you’re urging him on.”

Felicity honestly doesn’t know how John is maintaining his stoic facade through all of this, because she’s pretty sure her face is like three different shades of red right now.

“When you say lower, you mean on his ass, right?” Sara asks wryly. “You want my hands on his ass?”

“That’s what I want,” Diggle says, cracking the barest hint of a smile.

Sara cups Oliver’s butt cheeks with both hands, curling her fingernails into his skin, and Oliver lets out an undignified yelp that would have made an excellent addition to the blooper reel if the camera had been rolling. “Hey! Careful back there!”

“Too much ass grab?” Sara says, smirking at him.

Oliver shakes his head at her good-naturedly. “If you leave scratches, they’re going to have to put more makeup on my butt cheeks, and no one here wants that.”

They do it a few more times, until Diggle’s finally satisfied with their grinding and sex noises and butt-grabbing. Oliver and Sara keep the mood light, teasing each other and laughing in between takes, but they both look relieved when they’re finished with the wide shots. There’s still the medium and the close-ups to do, but they can at least put on pants for most of those, since their lower halves won’t be in the frame.

“Are my hands in this shot?” Oliver asks when they’re about to start the next setup.

Stein frowns at the monitor, then at Oliver. “Yes. Both of them.”

“What are they supposed to be doing again?”

There’s a pregnant moment of silence before Felicity realizes that _she’s_ the person who’s supposed to answer that. “Uhhhh, hang on,” she says, scrolling back through her screenshots. Of Oliver naked on top of Sara having pretend sex. Yeah, this is totally not weird at all, no siree.

“Um, your right hand—” Her voice cracks a little and she clears her throat. “—is propped on the pillow next to her head. And the other …” She squints at the screen. “Looks like it’s underneath her?”

“Like this?” Oliver asks, wedging his palm under Sara’s back and looking over at Felicity.

“Um … lower?” Felicity says.

Oliver moves his hand down.

“Little more. Like on her hip.”

“How’s that?”

Felicity swallows. “Yeah, right there.”

_God. How is this her life?_

She is literally instructing the man she has a crush on where to put his hands on the woman he is actually sleeping with in real life, while they simulate sex in front of her and bunch of her coworkers. There is not enough wine in the world to wash this day away.

By the time they finally wrap that night, Oliver and Sara have been simulating sex for close to twelve hours, and they both look drawn and exhausted as they pull on their robes and slip back to their trailers. Even real sex would get excruciating after twelve hours; Felicity can’t even imagine what it must be like to do _this_ for an entire day. It was hard enough just having to watch it.

When she gets home that night, the lights are on downstairs in Oliver’s house. She can’t tell if Sara came home with him or not, but she tries not to think about it. As soon as she gets inside her own house, she turns on the TV and cranks up the volume. If Sara’s next door, she does not want to know. And she certainly doesn’t want to hear them. She’s heard enough of Sara and Oliver’s sex noises to last her a lifetime.

 


	8. Chapter 8

First up on the call sheet Friday is the “morning after” scene that follows the love scene they shot yesterday. Fortunately for everyone, it’s pretty tame. Oliver and Sara are in bed, but they’re mostly just talking and get to be partially covered by the sheets. Even with Oliver shirtless and Sara flashing copious sideboob, it feels like a cake walk compared to yesterday’s shoot.

About halfway through the morning, Felicity gets a text from Oliver.

_What did 0 say to 8?_

It’s the first text she’s gotten from him since Sunday, when he sent her a picture of a bell pepper he claimed looked like Ray.

The answer arrives before she has a chance to reply.

_Nice belt_

She glances over at Oliver’s chair, but it’s empty.

“My sister loves that joke,” he says behind her, making her jump. “And you looked like you could use a smile.”

“It’s funny,” Felicity says.

He comes around to stand in front of her and raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t laugh.” He’s wearing flip flops and athletic shorts and an unzipped hoodie with no shirt, because he’s going to have to go crawl back under the covers with Sara in a few minutes.

“Well, it’s not funny ha ha. It’s more like clever funny.”

“Are you all right?” he asks, frowning slightly.

Felicity forces a smile and tries to sound perky. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

“You’ve just seemed sort of distant all week, like maybe you were avoiding me. I didn’t do anything to piss you off, did I?”

“No, definitely not. I’ve just been distracted with …” She waves her hand vaguely. “Stuff.” _Ugh._ Why isn’t she better at lying?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

He sinks into Diggle’s chair and bumps his arm against hers. “I feel like we haven’t talked in days.”

“We literally talk all day, every day when we’re at work,” she points out, instead of admitting that she feels the same. Because she is a coward. And because as much as she likes Oliver, she doesn’t entirely trust his intentions _or_ her own feelings where he’s concerned. Not to mention the whole Sara situation, which makes things even more complicated and confusing.

“That’s work talk,” he says. “I mean talk like this.” He nudges her arm again. “Like friends.”

Felicity’s chest clenches, and she looks away. “It’s just been one of those weeks, I guess.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs, sagging back in his chair. “I guess I’ve been pretty distracted, too.”

She looks at him—really _looks_ at him for the first time—and notices the lines of tension around his eyes, and the fact that he’s not smiling as much as he usually does. “Are _you_ okay?”

He nods, and his jaw moves like he’s grinding his teeth. “I’m just glad yesterday’s finally in the rearview mirror. It’s been hanging over my head all week.”

“Yeah, that must have been—” She only barely manages to stop herself from using the word _hard_. “—awkward.”

“Try mortifying. Being naked in front of all your coworkers is pretty much everyone’s worst nightmare, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t seem bothered when you were doing it. You seemed really confident.”

He shrugs. “I’m an actor, I’m used to pretending in front of an audience. But it’s hard to look people in the eye when you know you’re going to have to do something that embarrassing in front of them, so I’ve been keeping my head down all week. Thank God for Sara. It’s so much easier to do a scene like that with someone you’re comfortable with, and she’s a real pro.”

“Yeah. Thank God for Sara,” Felicity echoes.

Oliver shifts to one side and digs around in his pocket. “You want some gum?”

When she shakes her head, he unwraps a stick of Trident and shoves it in his mouth. He’s been chewing a lot more gum this week. She assumed it was for Sara’s benefit, but now she wonders if maybe it’s a nervous habit—something he does when he’s stressed.

“I think I’ve finally got another job lined up after this,” he says, rolling the wadded up gum wrapper between his thumb and index finger.

Felicity turns toward him, smiling. “Oliver! That’s great!”

He shrugs without looking at her.

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s not what I was hoping for. But as my agent keeps reminding me, it’s better than nothing.”

“Things will get better,” she tells him. “Once you’ve done a few films, people will be beating down your door.”

He glances at her. “What about you?” She can smell the spearmint on his breath.

“What about me?”

“Do you know what your next job’s going to be?”

She sits back in her chair and stretches her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes. “Not yet. I was thinking it might be nice to take a few weeks off before jumping into the next one. Location shoots always leave me feeling off kilter.”

Oliver snaps his gum. “Yeah, me too.”

***

Felicity is just trying to find Iris.

That’s the only reason she’s out back by the trailers in the first place. Because she needs to ask Iris if she’s bringing Barry to brunch tomorrow, so she knows whether to make the reservation for two people or three. She could have just texted her, but she’s been cooped up inside the soundstage all day, so she decided to take a walk out to the wardrobe trailer and get a little fresh air.

But Iris isn’t in the wardrobe trailer. And when Felicity comes out, she hears what sounds like footsteps behind it. So she peeks around the side of the trailer to see if it’s Iris.

It’s not Iris.

It’s Sara and Nyssa.

And they’re kissing.

Like, a _lot_.

Felicity backs away quietly and hurries back inside the soundstage.

 _Shit_.

Why didn’t she just text Iris?

***

She can’t decide whether to tell Oliver.

On the one hand, telling him seems like the right thing to do. The thing a _friend_ would do.

But on the other, it’s really none of her business. She doesn’t actually know anything about Oliver and Sara’s relationship, or what sort of ground rules they’ve set. Maybe they’re not exclusive. Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he already knows.

On the _other_ other hand—and this is the thing that really stops her cold—if he doesn’t know, and he _does_ care, it will hurt him. And she doesn’t want to be the one to do that.

Which is cowardly, but there it is.

So she waits.

She can always tell him later. At a more appropriate moment. When he doesn’t have to walk onto set and film a scene with Sara right afterwards.

Yeah, waiting’s good.

***

“Big plans for the weekend?” Oliver asks as Felicity’s packing up at the end of the shooting day.

“Uh, not really,” she says, turning away from him to wind up her laptop cord—but really so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “Brunch with Barry and Iris, but that’s about it.”

He leans over the back of Diggle’s chair, watching her. “So are they dating now?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Good for them. Is it serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Now would be a really good time to tell him, if she’s going to do it. The work day’s over; he’d have the whole weekend to hash things out with Sara and come to terms with it before work on Monday.

She should definitely tell him now.

“What about you?” she asks. “Any plans this weekend?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, actually. Sara said something about getting together, but she can be kind of mercurial.”

“Ah.”

_Tell him. Tell him tell him tell him._

“All right, I’m going to head out,” Oliver says, straightening. “Enjoy your weekend.”

She didn’t tell him. She sucks.

***

No one warned Felicity about the cockroaches in New Orleans, and she feels like this was a grievous oversight. They are not like normal cockroaches. They’re _super_ roaches. Like, the size of small rodents. Apparently they live in the trees and drop down on unsuspecting passersby occasionally. Horrifying. This is why she hates nature.

Felicity grew up in the desert, where they don’t have roaches like that (and also they don’t really have trees). Yes, okay, they have scorpions, but scorpions are different. She’s used to scorpions. And they don’t fly. Has she mentioned the roaches in New Orleans fly?

She’s seen a couple of them outside, dive-bombing the front porch light. On more than one occasion she’s had to hold her bag over her head and run past them in order to get into her house at night.

Horrifying.

But as long as they stay outside, she can deal with it.

Inside, however, is a whole other matter.

Unfortunately, the disgusting tree roaches have a habit of crawling in through the plumbing. There was one in the bathroom at work last week, and she had to beg Roy to kill it for her so she could pee.

Felicity does not like bugs in her house. Her house is supposed to be a sanctuary from creepy crawly things and, you know, nature in general.

Someone needs to tell that to the roach in her kitchen.

Not only did it have the nerve to hide under her sink, but then it had to go and _fly at her face_ when she opened the cabinet to get the dish detergent.

She definitely screamed. Loudly. And then she flailed, trying to keep the accursed thing _away from her face_ , and knocked a wineglass and a coffee mug off the counter.

She’s still hyperventilating when Oliver starts pounding on the door. “Felicity! Felicity, are you okay? Open the door!”

“I’m okay,” she calls out, backing out of the kitchen in case the roach tries to make another run at her.

As soon as she slides the lock back, Oliver bursts into the room. “What happened?” he asks, grasping her by the arms. “Are you crying?”

She shakes her head, but then she realizes that her cheeks are wet, so yeah, maybe she is crying a little. “It’s nothing,” she wheezes, still trying to catch her breath.

“It’s not nothing, Felicity, you’re shaking.” He’s holding her so tight she’s afraid his fingers are going to leave marks on her arm, but she doesn’t want him to let go of her, either.

“No …” She shakes even harder as the panic shifts into semi-hysterical laughter. “It’s just … there was a roach,” she manages to get out in between gasping breaths.

Oliver stares at her in disbelief. “A roach?”

“It flew at my face, Oliver! _At my face!_ ”

He presses his lips together, trying not smile and failing at it pretty hard.

“I really hate roaches, okay? Especially when they jump out at you suddenly from inside a dark cabinet and go straight for your face.”

“Okay,” he says soothingly, and pulls her to his chest. His arms wrap around her, and his hand covers the back of her head.

Felicity lets herself sink into the comfort of his embrace for exactly five seconds before pulling away.

He’s got a girlfriend—or something. Whatever’s going on between him and Sara, Felicity has no business snuggling up to him.

“So where’s this villainous attack roach?” Oliver asks, starting for the kitchen.

“Wait,” she says, grabbing his arm. “I broke some dishes.” He’s barefoot and she doesn’t want him to cut his feet on her behalf.

“Yeah, I heard,” he says, grinning. “I’ll be careful. Where’s your broom?”

“Next to the washing machine.”

He stoops and grabs one of her Converse on his way into the kitchen. Felicity recoils at the thought of squashed roach all over her shoe, but she’s not going to complain about it if he’s killing the roach for her. She can always burn the shoes.

When he gets to the kitchen, he steps carefully around the broken glass and peers under the sink, looking for the roach.

“Do you see it?” Felicity asks, edging away and turning her back. The only thing worse than a live roach is a squashed roach, and she can’t bear to watch.

“Ummm,” Oliver says. A few seconds later, she hears the shoe smack against something. “ _Dammit._ ” Another smack. And another. “He’s a crafty son of a bitch, I’ll give him that.”

Felicity covers her eyes and moves even farther away from the kitchen, in case the roach makes a break for it. “Oliver?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to be defeated by a goddamn roach.” There’s a crash, followed by another, louder smack. “Ha!” Oliver shouts triumphantly.

“Is it dead?”

“Yeah. Don’t come in here, though.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I just don’t want you to have to see it.” Felicity hears the sound of cabinets opening and closing, and then the _whoosh_ of the broom brushing against the tile floor, followed by running water.

“Okay,” Oliver says a few minutes later. “It’s safe.”

When Felicity ventures back into the kitchen, it’s spotless. He’s not only cleaned up the dead roach and washed off her shoe, but he’s swept up all the broken glass and ceramic, too. “Oh my God, you’re best!” she tells him. “Totally my hero.”

He grins. “Any other vermin in need of executing while I’m here?”

Felicity shudders. “I hope not.” And then she notices the blood on the paper towel he’s holding. “Oliver, what happened?” she asked, moving closer.

“It’s nothing,” he says, shrugging. “I cut myself cleaning up the glass.”

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry. Here, let me get you a Band-Aid.”

“It’s not bad,” he insists.

“Did you wash it?” She digs around in a drawer for the antiseptic spray and bandages she keeps there because she’s an uncoordinated klutz with a tendency to hurt herself in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“Let me see.” She takes his hand and peels off the paper towel, squinting at his injured index finger. He’s right, it’s not a deep cut, but she still feels bad that he got it doing her a favor.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?”

“We’ll probably be able to save the finger,” she tells him. “As long we can stave off gangrene.”

She sprays antiseptic on the cut and reaches for a Band-Aid. Oliver waits patiently while she bandages his finger.

“Thanks,” he says, flexing it experimentally when she’s done. “You’ve got the magic touch.” He smiles at her, and she feels her stomach clench.

“Oliver, I have to tell you something,” she blurts out, wringing her hands.

The smile slides from his face. “What?”

“It’s about Sara.”

He goes still. “What about Sara?”

 _Shit shit shit._ She doesn’t want to do this. Why did she bring it up?

“Felicity?” he prompts.

“I saw Sara and Nyssa together. And they were kissing.”

He nods slowly, like he’s letting it sink in. “Okay.”

She takes a half-step toward him before stopping herself. “I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“It is? You’re not upset?” He doesn’t _look_ upset. But maybe he’s just good at hiding it.

“Sara’s allowed to do whatever she wants. Or whoever.”

“Oh,” Felicity says. “Okay.” Well, now she feels stupid.

His brows draw together. “Did you think we were together?”

“Well, I mean … kind of? Because—”

“Because she spent the night,” he finishes for her.

Felicity nods.

“We’re just old friends. That’s it.”

“Friends,” she repeats, giving him a look of disbelief. “Sleepover friends?”

His eyes skate away from hers, like he’s embarrassed. “Sara and I, we’re—it’s complicated.”

“Apparently.”

“There’s a lot of history between us, but that’s all it is. History.”

“History,” she says, nodding even though she doesn’t really understand anything.

“We were together for a while,” he admits. “A long time ago.” His eyes close briefly and grimaces. “And not so long ago. But not anymore. Not for months.”

“Ah.” She’s starting to get the picture now and kind of wishes she wasn’t.

“We’re a lot alike,” he goes on, like he owes her some kind of explanation. “And sometimes that can draw us together but …” He pauses, shaking his head. “We’re not really very good for each other. And anyway, Sara’s not big on commitment.”

“And you are?” It just sort of slips out, and Felicity immediately regrets it.

Oliver looks down at the floor. “Statistically? Not so much, no.”

So. He _has_ slept with his ex-fiancée’s younger sister—multiple times over the years—including a few months ago—but he’s _not_ sleeping with her at this precise moment. Also, he’s not a fan of commitment. Excellent. These are all good things to know.

“Anyway,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “when Sara came over to run lines, we got caught up talking. And by the time we were done it was late and she’d had a lot to drink, so she stayed the night. In my guest room,” he adds pointedly.

“Well, good,” Felicity says, ready for this conversation to be over. And then she winces when she realizes how that sounds. “I mean, not good that you’re not together, just good that she’s not—” She thinks better of using the word “cheating,” and tries to course correct. “I’m glad you’re not hurt. That’s all.”

Oliver’s expression softens. “I’m not hurt. But it’s nice to know you care.”

She cares a little too much, is the problem. More than she’s ready to admit to herself, much less to him. And she can’t deal with the way he’s looking at her right now.

“Right, so anyway, thanks for taking care of my roach situation,” she says, moving toward the door.

Oliver follows her, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “I make house calls 24/7,” he says, flashing his most charming smile. “Should the need ever arise.”

Felicity doesn’t know what to do with his flirting now that she knows he and Sara aren’t together. Not that she knew what to do with it before, either. Basically, she just doesn’t know what to do with Oliver Queen at all. And that kind of terrifies her.

“Okay, well, goodnight!” she says, a little too brightly.

“Goodnight,” Oliver says, thumping the doorframe with his palm on the way out.

Blerg. Why is she so bad at this?

***

_Knock knock,_ Oliver texts her on Monday.

 _Who’s there?_ Felicity replies, smiling.

Jokes are his new thing, apparently. He’s texted her a new one every day since Friday, and they’re always these really awful, punny kid jokes. Like he’s nine years old. It’s embarrassing how adorable she finds it.

_A broken pencil_

_A broken pencil who?_

_Nevermind its pointless_

Felicity is not supposed to let herself think about her actor coworkers like this. She has a very firm rule in place for situations like this. It’s a good rule. It’s served her well over the years.

She doesn’t even _like_ actors. They’re needy. And self-centered. And shallow. And unreliable. And terrible in bed. She’s tried dating actors before, and it sucks.

She doesn’t want to date an actor.

But then there’s Oliver.

She _likes_ him. She can’t help herself.

 _What’s blue and smells like red paint?_ he texts on Tuesday.

_What?_

_Blue paint_

_That’s terrible._

_Made u smile tho_

***

“Let’s see what today’s new Snapchat filters are,” Oliver says, plopping down next to her as she’s finishing her lunch.

“Do they still have the one with the butterflies?” she asks around a mouthful of French fries. “I liked the butterflies.”

He reaches over and snags a fry off her plate as he’s thumbing through the filters. “No more butterflies. How do you feel about vomiting rainbows?”

“Thumbs down.”

“Oh, here we go.” He holds his phone out and snaps a selfie. “What do you think?” he asks, showing it to her. The filter has given him a glittery lion face.

“Nice. You look just like Simba.”

“I’m posting it,” Oliver says, smiling as he types with his thumbs. “You know, when I was a kid I wanted to marry Nala. I think she was my first crush.” He pauses and looks up at her. “Is that weird?”

“You mean because she’s a lion?”

“Yeah.”

Felicity shrugs. “I wanted to marry Simba. If you’re weird, I’m weird, too.”

Oliver grins at her. “Match made in heaven.”

See, the problem is that the flirtier he acts, the harder Felicity crushes on him. It’s impossible not to find the attention thrilling when it’s coming from someone as attractive as Oliver. But it’s also a little bit heart-wrenching, because she _knows_ he’s not actually flirting with her. It’s just how he is. It’s his way of being friendly.

He’s Oliver Queen. He’s slept with hundreds of women, probably. The man has no shortage of game. If he was actually interested in her, he would have done something about it by now. It’s not like he hasn’t had plenty of chances.

But he hasn’t done anything about it, which means he doesn’t _want_ to do anything about it.

She’s trying to be fine with that, with just being friends, but it’s getting harder every day.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Friday, they have a VIP visitor coming to the set: Tommy Merlyn, who’s flying in for the weekend to hang with Oliver.

Tommy’s not due to get in until lunchtime, and the whole morning Oliver is as antsy as a kid on Christmas Eve. He keeps checking his watch—which is a prop watch that doesn’t have a working battery—and then cursing and pulling out his phone. He’s not the only one who’s excited about their expected visitor, either. Every straight woman and gay man with badge access to the soundstage seems to have found a reason to hang around the set this morning.

When Tommy finally strolls in, escorted by the star-struck intern who works the reception desk, Oliver transforms into some kind of caricature of a dudebro right before Felicity’s eyes. There’s a lot of bro-y hugs and hearty backslaps and throaty laughter, and so many _’sups_ and _dudes_ and _mans_ she feels like she’s at a Dave Matthews concert. It’s strange to see Oliver so animated, and she can’t help wondering if this was what he was like all the time when he was younger and less sober. Before he was so intense. And damaged.

Tommy Merlyn is as glossy as his headshot, with the same floppy dark hair and boyish grin that made an entire generation of Millennials swoon during their formative years. Felicity was never that into him growing up, but she can’t help being a little dazzled when Oliver introduces him, and Tommy projects that dreamy smile directly at her.

“Nice to meet you, Felicity Smoak,” he says, holding her hand for just a little longer than necessary.

He does that with all the women Oliver introduces him to, Felicity can’t help noticing. Looks them in the eye, flashes that smile, and repeats their full name, all while holding their hand meaningfully in his. It’s like a hypnotist’s trick, and it works a charm. Every single woman in the room is left starry-eyed and slightly dazed when Tommy Merlyn is through with her.

Movie stars. It really is like a superpower.

The only woman Tommy doesn’t try to charm is Sara. When she shows up on set, she goes straight over to give him a hug, but something about it strikes Felicity as strained. It’s not that it’s an unaffectionate hug, exactly, it’s just that it’s unaffectionate for Sara. Like they’re being careful around each other.

“How’s Laurel doing?” Sara asks, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“She’s good.” Tommy shoots a sideways glance at Oliver, who’s staring determinedly at his shoes. “She told me to give you her love.”

Sara rolls her eyes and snorts. “I _know_ that’s a lie.”

Tommy’s smile loses a little of its luster. “Just because she didn’t say it doesn’t mean she doesn’t mean it.”

Felicity doesn’t feel right eavesdropping on whatever personal drama is unfolding between them, so she gets up and heads over to the craft services table until Barry calls for final checks.

There’s an extra chair set out by the monitors for Tommy, with a headset so he can listen along to the scene they’re shooting. He heads over to it when the actors take their places, giving Felicity a wink as he settles in. After watching exactly one take, Tommy pulls out his phone and concentrates on that instead. Five minutes later, he gets up, grabs a bottle of Vitamin Water from the craft services table, and disappears outside.

Felicity doesn’t see him again for the rest of the day.

“What happened to Tommy?” she asks Oliver later.

He steals an M&M out of her palm and pops it in his mouth. “I gave him the key to my place so he could crash. Jet lag.”

The time difference between LA and New Orleans is only two hours, but okay. She’s sure it must be exhausting, flying through two whole time zones on a fancy private jet.

“Hey, so I’m having a party tomorrow night,” Oliver says, helping himself to another M&M. Now that he’s got all his shirtless scenes in the can, he’s being less careful with his diet. “Nothing too wild, just a few people.”

Felicity leans toward her laptop to skim the email that just came in from the editor, Harrison Wells. “I promise not to call in a noise complaint on you,” she says distractedly. Apparently, Wells found an eyeline mismatch in last week’s dailies and wants to schedule a call with Diggle to decide if its worth doing a reshoot.

Oliver tilts his head to catch her eye. “I was actually hoping you’d come.”

“Oh,” Felicity says, Wells and his eyeline mismatch forgotten. “Sure. Definitely.”

“Great.” Oliver steals another M&M. “Eight o’clock.”

She nods. “I’ll be there.”

_Shit._

***

At eight-thirty, Felicity stands in front of the door to Oliver’s house with her stomach twisting. She can hear voices next door, and music. She’s been hearing it for the last half-hour—some kind of electronic dance music with the same monotonous beat, so you can’t tell where one song starts the next one begins.

Oliver said eight, but she knows better than to show up on time to a party, even though it’s basically killing her to be intentionally late.

She’s really not very good at parties.

Felicity stares at the adjoining door and wonders if she should go around to his front door instead. No, that’s dumb. She should just knock on this door, like she always does. But what if they don’t hear her over the music? Maybe his side’s still unlocked, and he’s expecting her to just let herself in? Unless that would be too forward, just barging in uninvited? Except she was invited, and there are already other people there, she can hear them.

God, her palms are sweating. Why is she this nervous? It’s just a stupid party.

At a gorgeous movie star’s house. A movie star she happens to have a crush on. No big deal.

_Get it together, you can’t stand here all night._

Felicity reaches out and tries the door. It’s unlocked, so she pushes it tentatively open.

Oliver’s house is bright and warm and full of people. Well, not _full_. There are like ten or twelve people there, mostly from the cast or the stunt team. All of them beautiful people with perfect bodies and gorgeous hair and great clothes.

This is fine.

“Felicity!” Curtis shouts, detaching himself from a clump of people to greet her, arms thrown wide. He pulls her into a friendly, sloppy hug, and she immediately feels more comfortable.

She feels even better when he drags her off to the kitchen to procure her a glass of wine.

The kitchen is where Oliver is, making food. Some kind of canapés with goat cheese and prosciutto. There’s a cheese plate already sitting out, and a charcuterie board, and a platter covered with vegetable crudités.

“Hey,” he says, looking up at her smiling. “I’m glad you made it.” He stops assembling canapés long enough to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Can you believe this guy can cook?” Curtis says, thrusting a glass of rosé into Felicity’s hand. “If I weren’t already married and he weren’t straight …” He shakes his head sadly.

“Can I do anything to help?” Felicity asks Oliver.

“Yeah, taste this for me.” He holds a canapé up in front of her face.

She opens her mouth and lets him place it on her tongue.

“What do you think?” he asks earnestly, like her opinion is deeply important to him.

“It’s delicious,” she assures him, and his whole face lights up.

“Ollie, what’d you do with the olives, man?” Tommy shouts from the pantry, and Oliver abandons Felicity and the canapés to go help him look.

She follows Curtis back to the living room with her wine and squeezes onto one of the couches between him and Maseo. She knows most of the people there, but some of them she knows better than others, since she doesn’t have all that much to do with the stunt crew. Ray’s there, and Nyssa and Sara, and Ronnie and Caitlin (who are a full-fledged item now), and some of the other supporting cast members. There aren’t many people from the rest of the crew, though, other than Felicity and Caitlin.

Maseo introduces Felicity to his wife, Tatsu, who works as a stunt woman, too, and she and Felicity talk across him until he finally gives up and switches seats. Another dozen or so people show up over the next hour, and Oliver makes the rounds of the room, playing the good host and doling out lots of cheek kisses and handshakes. He checks in with everyone intermittently to make sure they’re taken care of and having a good time, like he feels personally responsible for all his guests. It’s sweet, but it means Felicity doesn’t really get to talk to him much, because he’s always passing by on his way to talk to someone else.

She watches him drift from group to group: laughing, smiling, making small talk, and reflexively touching everyone he engages with. He’s much more outgoing than usual, a whirlwind of shoulder squeezes, backslaps, and hugs, punctuating every laugh with a friendly touch of some kind. Tonight his attentiveness doesn’t seem manipulative so much as magnanimous, although it's impossible to tell how much of it is genuine. Is his enthusiasm for the people he’s talking to, or merely for the fact that he’s talking to people? Is he simply enduring every interaction, or an enthusiastic participant? Is this party person who Oliver really is, or just another act he’s putting on? He wears so many masks that Felicity honestly can’t make heads or tails of him.

By eleven o’clock the party’s thinned out a little and gotten more relaxed. Someone has changed the music, and Sara is lip synching to Britney Spears while Nyssa eggs her on, laughing. When the song switches to *NSYNC, Tommy joins Sara for a duet, and pretty soon they’ve dragged a reluctant Oliver up there with them. He’s a little self-conscious at first, but he knows all the words and dance moves by heart, and Felicity gets the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve sung this song together.

Not long after that someone suggests charades, and everyone starts organizing themselves into teams. Felicity is by herself in the kitchen at that point, grazing on what’s left of the crudités, and no one notices when she slips into the empty front room.

It’s an actual, honest-to-god ballroom, with a crystal chandelier hanging above a parquet wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the park, but it’s being used as a workout room, with a treadmill and rower and a rack of dumbbells. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the leaded antique glass, and Felicity stands by the window and looks out at the night, comforted for a few minutes by the knowledge that no one can see her.

She’ll go back to the party in a few minutes. She just needs a break.

She’s tired, but she’s not ready to go home yet. She’s not ready for tonight to be over. To give up a chance to be close to Oliver for a while longer.

God, she likes him so much.

There’s a lot of excited shouting coming from the game of charades in the next room. It sounds like they’re really getting into it. Actors. They do love their charades.

Maybe she will just go home. Sneak back into her house while they’re all distracted and crawl into bed. No one would miss her, probably.

“Felicity?” a voice says behind her.

It’s Oliver.

“There you are,” he says, coming up beside her. “I was afraid you’d left.”

She looks up at him and forces a smile. “Still here.”

His forehead creases. “Are you having a good time? I’m worried you’re not having a good time.”

“I am,” she says. Now that he’s here, she is. She’s addicted to the way she feels around him, even though it hurts whenever he shines his light on someone else. Oliver is bright as the sun, but he casts a cold shadow.

His frown deepens, like he doesn’t believe her. “Really? Then why’d you sneak off on your own?”

She shrugs. “I’m not really a charades person.”

“What’s wrong with charades?”

“Nothing. It just triggers all my childhood insecurities about performing in front an audience.”

He purses his lips. “You’re not having a good time.”

“I am,” she insists. “This is me having a good time.

“Standing alone in dark room?”

“Please don’t feel responsible for my emotional well-being. You should go back to your party.”

“I don’t care about the party, I’d rather be here with you.” He reaches for her—it’s just a simple, soft brush of his fingers down her arm, but it’s enough to make her heart lurch, even though it’s the same touch she’s seen him give a dozen other people tonight.

It makes her feel even more tired. She’s exhausted from playing this game with him. Trying figure out what’s genuine and who she’s supposed to be in response to all of his Oliver-ness.

“Of course you care about the party,” she says with a sigh. “You worked hard on the party.”

“I did work pretty hard on the canapés. Did you like the canapés?”

“I loved the canapés.”

“Good.” He winks at her. “I was hoping to impress you.”

She pulls back a little. “You don’t have to keep doing that.”

“What?”

“Pretend to flirt with me.”

His smile slips a little. “Who says I’m pretending?”

“I already like you, okay? You don’t have to keep trying to win me over. And we both know you’re not actually attracted to me, so really it’s all just kind of—”

“How do you know I’m not attracted to you?” he interrupts. He’s not smiling anymore.

She gives him her best _duh_ look. “Because I’m me and you’re _you_ and I’m obviously not your type.”

He raises a single eyebrow. “What do you think my type is?”

She shrugs. “Leggy actresses with thigh gaps and perfect hair.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not my type.”

“Sure it is, I’ve seen the pictures in _US Weekly._ ”

“That used to be my type. Not anymore.”

She tilts her head at him, not buying it. “Sara.”

He winces. “Sara’s definitely not my type anymore.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Okay, then what’s your type?”

His mouth twists into the barest hint of a smirk. “Smart blondes in glasses who refuse put up with any of my shit.”

Her throat goes dry. “Oliver.” It’s supposed to be a warning, but it comes out as a whisper.

“Felicity.” The soft, slightly breathy way he says her name makes her legs tremble. And the way he’s looking at her right now—

His eyes drop to her mouth, and he leans into her. His hands find their way to her waist, and then—

_Whoa._

He’s kissing her.

She’s being kissed by Oliver Queen.

“Ollie Ollie oxen free!” Tommy shouts from the next room. “Where’d you go, man? Your team needs you.”

Oliver pulls away, but he doesn’t let go of her. “Yeah, okay!” he calls back over his shoulder. “Be right there.”

Felicity closes her eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.

Oliver’s forehead presses against hers. “Sorry,” he mutters.

She nods, unable to form words yet.

“Come back to the party with me?” She stiffens at the thought of it, but he takes her hand in his and squeezes. “Please?”

Felicity nods again and lets him lead her back to the party. When they reach the doorway of the living room, Oliver’s hand lets go of hers and moves to the small of her back. He guides her to one of the couches and cocks his head at Tommy to scoot over. Then he nudges her into the empty space and perches on the arm of the couch next to her.

“Hey! Why do y’all get Felicity on your team?” Curtis asks accusingly.

“Yeah, you guys are already a man up on us,” Sara protests. “If she’s playing, it’s on our team.”

“She’s not playing,” Oliver says. “She’s just watching.” He gives Felicity’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and she leans into him gratefully.

They go back to playing charades, and Felicity tries to look like she’s paying attention.

She kissed Oliver. _Kissed_ him.

Sort of.

She was so surprised it was happening she didn’t have time to respond properly. And then Tommy interrupted them—damn him—and Oliver stopped kissing her before she’d even had a chance to kiss him back.

He probably thought she didn’t like it. Or worse: he thought she was a terrible kisser.

Oh, God. Oliver Queen kissed her and now he thinks she’s a terrible kisser.

She can do better. She just needs another chance to get it right. A do over. Next time she won’t be so unprepared.

Unless … unless when Oliver said he was sorry, he meant for kissing her? Maybe he wishes he could take it back. Maybe he doesn’t want a do over.

She can’t even remember what it felt like to kiss him. She was so stunned she kind of blacked out for second. Oliver’s lips were on hers and she can’t remember how they felt. How is that fair?

The game of charades drags on for another hour, and then the lip synching starts up again. Every time Oliver catches her eye he smiles, but then this little crease appears in his forehead that she can’t decipher. Other than that, he acts like nothing happened at all.

Felicity sticks it out for a while, hoping for a chance to get Oliver alone again. But Tommy always seems to be close by and doesn’t showing any signs of slowing down anytime soon. And he’s staying at Oliver’s place, so it’s not like he’s going to be leaving anytime tonight. It’s pointless to try and wait him out.

“I’m going to head home,” Felicity says finally, pushing herself to her feet just after one a.m.

“Hang on, I’ll walk you out,” Oliver says.

He follows her to the door and reaches out to open it for her.

“Sorry,” he says again, leaning against the doorjamb.

She wants to ask him what for, but this isn’t the time to talk about it. “Goodnight,” she says instead.

He bends down and kisses her cheek. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

Felicity nods and goes back to her house.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Felicity doesn’t get to talk to Oliver the next day, after all.

She’s awake with the sun, out of sheer nervousness and anticipation, but it’s well after noon before she hears any signs of anyone stirring next door. An hour after that, she hears Oliver and Tommy go out, and they’re gone the whole rest of the day.

Felicity hangs around the house, doing laundry and listening for their return. Checking her phone obsessively, in case Oliver texts her. He doesn’t.

At 11 p.m., she finally gives up and goes to bed. Tommy’s leaving in the morning; they’re probably making the most of their last night together.

Sometime after midnight, she hears Oliver and Tommy come home. Felicity lies in bed, listening to the murmur of their voices as they clomp around next door.

Hours later, after they’ve finally gone quiet, she falls into a fitful sleep.

***

Monday morning when she gets to work, Felicity is a sleep-deprived, cranky wreck. Her anxiety levels are nearing an all-time high, which is pointless, because Oliver isn’t even on the call sheet until eleven.

She spends the whole morning trying to ignore the knots in the pit of her stomach and focus on work. She’s only partially successful.

“You okay?” Diggle asks when she messes up a line prompt.

“Yeah, sorry,” she mutters, grimacing. “I’ll get my head in the game.”

“You’re doing fine,” he says, giving her a reassuring smile.

She’s not, but it’s kind of him to pretend otherwise.

When she finally sees Oliver, a ball of nervous dread leaps into her throat. He’s all the way on the other side of the lot, rushing off to hair and makeup because he’s running late, and he doesn’t even see her, but for a second her heart forgets how to beat.

By the time he comes on set, he barely even has time to nod in her direction before they start rehearsal. And then he’s busy talking to Diggle and the other actors about the scene. And then hair and makeup need to do a touch up. And then it’s time for the first take.

When they break for a camera change, Felicity sees Oliver start to head in her direction, but Ray gets there first and starts telling her about this new restaurant he found that’s great for clean eating. Oliver meets her eye with a look that she can’t interpret, and then goes and sits down by Sara.

Goddamn Ray.

By the time he’s finished describing the lentil and veggie omelet he had for breakfast yesterday (gag), they’re ready to roll again.

Finally, almost an hour later, they take another break to set up for the next shot. Felicity’s in the middle of talking to Barry about the next scene when Oliver comes over. “Can I have Felicity for a minute?” he asks.

“Sure,” Barry says, and Felicity swallows down a spike of nerves as he walks away, leaving her and Oliver alone.

“Can we talk?” Oliver asks her.

She nods. “Yeah, of course.”

“Not here,” he says. “My trailer?”

She nods again, and Oliver’s hands settles in the small of her back, guiding her outside.

His trailer is the nicest on the lot, and the closest to the stages. He holds the door open for her, and she climbs up the steps.

Inside, it’s spartan and utilitarian, without any personal effects on display to make it seem homey. There’s a tub of protein powder on the kitchenette counter, some resistance bands and dumbbells lying around, and a few stacks of scripts scattered on various surfaces, but otherwise it’s uncluttered.

Felicity doesn’t know whether this is a sit down conversation or a stand up conversation, so she hovers nervously by the dining table. She’s vibrating with tension, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she ends up twisting them in front of her.

Oliver pulls the door shut, locks it, and turns to face her. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday, I was out with Tommy all day.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, and then the tsunami of word vomit she’s been holding in for a day and a half comes tumbling out: “We don’t have to talk about anything. We can just pretend it didn’t happen if that’s what you want, that’s probably for the best, anyway. Talking’s way overrated, I mean, what’s even—”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, stepping toward her. His hands settle on her shoulders, and she snaps her mouth shut. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened.”

She exhales, dropping her head forward. “Oh, thank God.”

He laughs, and she feels his fingers brush against her cheek. They settle under her chin and tip her face up to his.

“I’m not sorry I kissed you. In fact …” He pauses, his eyes going all soft and crinkly. “I’m really hoping you’ll let me do it again.”

“Oh,” she breathes, feeling her cheeks warm.

He bends down until his lips are just a breath away from hers. “Is that okay?”

She doesn’t let herself think, just surges up and presses her mouth against his.

It’s _so_ much better this time.

She’s an active participant in the kiss, for one thing, instead of just standing there dazed and frozen. And she’s fully aware of what’s happening. She has the presence of mind to appreciate how soft his lips are— _so_ soft, softer than she ever imagined—and how his mouth tastes—like spearmint and pure pleasure. His stubble is prickly, but it’s a good kind of prickly. _Really_ good. The contrast between the softness and the prickliness sends a jolt of happiness down her spine.

She doesn’t want it to ever end, but of course it has to eventually.

When Oliver finally pulls away, Felicity curls her arms around his neck and runs her fingers through his hair—because she wants to, and because she needs to keep him close. She doesn’t want him getting away this time—not even an inch.

He doesn’t seem interested in getting away, though. His hands roam over her back as his hips press into her, pinning her up against the table. “Felicity,” he whispers, pushing his forehead against hers.

“Oliver,” she sighs.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“How long?”

“Since the first second I saw you.”

She shakes her head, her nose rubbing against his. “You did not. You didn’t even like me.”

“ _You_ didn’t like _me._ ”

“We didn’t like each other.”

“That’s not true.” He pulls back far enough to look at her. “I thought you were fascinating.”

She laughs. “That’s a nice way of saying weird.”

Smiling, he kisses her forehead, and then her temple. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

“You had a funny way of showing it.”

His nose pushes against her ear, making her shiver. “I was nervous.” He kisses the corner of her jaw. “You made me nervous.”

“ _I_ made _you_ nervous?”

“I knew you didn’t like me.” He nuzzles against her neck, and she shivers again. “I didn’t want to screw up in front of you, and I knew I was going to.”

“I liked you once I got to know you.” Her hands are on his shoulders, clinging a little bit, because he’s making her feel dizzy.

“I wasn’t sure.” He tugs at her collar with his index finger, pulling it aside so he can kiss the top of her shoulder. “I thought maybe you were just tolerating me, just to be nice. The way you tolerate Ray.”

“Ugh, no. I like you so much more than Ray.”

Oliver straightens, so he’s looking down at her again, and breaks into a smile. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”

“You really thought I didn’t like you?”

He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “I started to think maybe you did when we were at the bar that night.” He drops his hand to his side. “But you were also a little drunk, so I wasn’t sure you meant it. And then it felt like you pulled away from me after that.”

She smacks him lightly in the chest. “Because I thought you were with Sara!”

“Fair,” he admits, hanging his head a little. “I sort of fucked that up.”

“Sort of!”

He catches her hand in his. “In my defense, I didn’t know there was anything to fuck up. You weren’t exactly giving me a lot of encouragement.”

“I was intimidated by you.”

His thumb moves across the palm of her hand. “By me? Why?”

“Because,” she says. “Because you’re you, and because I could never tell if you were actually flirting with me or if you were just being, you know, friendly, the way you are with everyone.”

He bends down and kisses her, lightly, before pulling back. “I was definitely flirting with you.”

“But you flirt with everyone.”

He kisses her again, a little longer this time. “Not the way I flirt with you.”

“Well, I couldn’t tell the difference.”

One of his hands slips around her waist and the other comes up to her face, caressing her jaw. And then he’s kissing her again, his hips pressing against hers and his tongue sliding into her mouth.

She sinks into him, tilting her head and opening up for him. She’s clinging to him again, because she’s in real danger of swooning at his feet, and she wonders if this is how he does it with all the other women. If he kisses them like this and does that thing he’s doing with his tongue, and then they let him do anything he wants to them. She wonders if she’s going to let him do anything he wants with her. Probably, as long as he keeps kissing her this way.

“Felicity,” he murmurs.

“Hmmm?”

His mouth moves to her ear. “Can you tell I’m flirting with you now?”

“Mmmm, yeah.”

He laughs softly. “Good.”

She takes his face in her hands and tilts it so she can look into his eyes. “Can you tell I like you now?”

“I don’t know,” he says very seriously. “I think I might need another kiss to make sure.”

She presses her lips to his, hands on either side of his face, still a little in shock that this is actually happening. One of his hands is holding the back of her neck, the other splayed against the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, and then he’s catching her bottom lip between his teeth—

There’s a knock on the door of the trailer, and they startle apart.

“Hey, Oliver, they’re ready for you,” Roy shouts.

“Okay!” Oliver shouts back.

“I have to go,” Felicity says, stepping past him. _Crap._ They’ll be looking for her on set, wondering where she’s disappeared to.

“Wait,” Oliver says.

She waits.

He kisses her again, gently, but taking his time. When he pulls away, he’s smiling. “Okay, now you can go.”

Felicity runs back to the soundstage with a big dumb grin on her face.

***

She can’t stop touching her lips. They’re still tingling from kissing Oliver. She can still taste him, too, on the tip of her tongue. The kiss—all of their kisses—keep replaying in her mind, every delicious second. Part of her still can’t believe it really happened.

Instead of going away, the butterflies in her stomach have multiplied exponentially. It makes her feel lightheaded, like she’s drunk. Her knees are wobbly, and she’s having trouble sitting still. She’s all squirmy, like an impatient puppy who can see a treat just out of reach.

She keeps smiling, too. Every time she looks at Oliver, her lips involuntarily curl into a smile. Which is a problem, because she has to look at Oliver pretty much constantly. It’s sort of her job.

“Someone’s in a better mood,” Diggle observes, eyebrows raised, and Felicity feels herself blush crimson.

“Finally got enough caffeine,” she mutters, crossing and recrossing her legs as she looks down at her laptop to hide her face.

It doesn’t help that Oliver keeps smiling back at her. Every time he finishes a take, his eyes find hers and go all crinkly. God, those crinkles around his eyes. She loves them even more when they’re crinkling because of her.

He keeps his distance, though. Which is good, because she’s having a hard enough time acting normal as it is. If he were actually close enough to touch, she’s not sure she’d be able to control herself.

“What’s with you today?” Iris asks accusingly as they’re perusing the craft services table.

“Nothing,” Felicity says, turning away to snag herself a blueberry yogurt.

“You’re acting weird.”

Felicity reaches for a spoon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh my god!” Iris’ hand clamps on Felicity’s arm, dragging her around to face her. “Something happened with you and Oliver,” she hisses.

“What? No.” Seriously, how does she even do that? Is she really being that obvious or does Iris have some uncanny sixth sense when it comes to her love life?

“Felicity Megan Smoak, don’t you dare lie to me.”

Felicity glances around to make sure there’s no one in earshot. “We may have kissed,” she admits.

“I knew it! I knew he liked you!” Iris bounces on her toes, grinning. “Oh my god, how was it? Tell me everything.”

“It was nice,” Felicity says, smiling.

“Tell me about his lips. How do they feel? Is he a good kisser?”

Felicity’s smile gets even wider. “He’s a _great_ kisser.”

“Oh, wow, you really like him, don’t you?” Iris’ expression shifts to a concerned frown. “Promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Men like that—” She stops, like she’s reconsidering what she was about to say. “Just don’t let him hurt you.”

“It was just a kiss,” Felicity says, rolling her eyes.

Iris shakes her head. “It’s never just a kiss.”

***

Oliver sends Felicity a text toward the end of the shooting day: _Why did the chicken cross the playground?_

She knows this one, so she texts him back the answer: _To get to the other slide_.

A text bubble pops up to let her know he’s typing a reply.

Felicity waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

_Can I come over when u get home tonite?_

The butterflies in her stomach start doing coordinated aerial maneuvers, with, like, Delta rolls and Yo-Yos. Her fingers tremble as she types her answer.

_Yes._

***

Of course shooting runs longer than usual that day. Of course it does.

And of course Martin Stein decides tonight is good night to talk Felicity’s ear off after they’ve wrapped for the day about the dangers of pulling focus with a Cine Tape instead of an old-fashioned tape measure. Of course he does. And then Diggle wants her to look at some of the dailies with him, because sure, why not? It’s not like she’s got any reason to want to get out of here tonight.

All of which means Oliver makes it home well before she does.

Felicity lets herself into her house, drops her bag on the floor by the door, and sprints upstairs to brush her teeth. Once she’s taken care of her coffee breath, she pulls out her ponytail and finger-combs her hair. Before she has a chance to do anything else, there’s a knock on the door downstairs.

She’s been home for all of a minute and a half.

She hurries back downstairs and opens the door to a smiling Oliver.

“Hi,” she says, a little out of breath.

His smile gets wider. “Hi.” He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans that look like they were painted on, showing off every bulge and striation. _Every_ bulge.

Felicity swallows and steps back to let him in, trying to project casual calmness and not the all-consuming panic she’s actually feeling. Now that she’s got him here, she has no idea what to do with him. Drinks are out, obviously. Should she offer him something to eat? What’s the approved protocol for booty calls? Because that’s what this is, right?

God, she hopes that’s what this is.

There’s not much in the way of actual food in the house, so she settles on an uncertain, “Do you want some water or something?”

Instead of answering, Oliver moves into her space, his hands landing on her hips and urging her backward until he’s got her up against the wall next to the stairs.

“Hey,” he says, gazing down at her with an intensity that makes her giddy.

Felicity takes a shaky breath. “Hey.”

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he reaches up and takes off her glasses. He folds them carefully and sets them on the entry table, out of harm’s way, before returning his hands to her hips. His movements are slow and deliberate, allowing her ample opportunity to stop him. To slow things down if that’s what she wants.

She doesn’t want to go slow. The opposite of that, actually.

She’s been in something of a dry spell for the last, oh, two hundred and sixty-three days—not that she’s counting or anything. And besides, it’s _Oliver Queen_. If you had the chance to sleep with Oliver Queen, wouldn’t you take it? Wouldn’t you seize the moment with both hands before it slipped away? Wouldn’t it be a crime against all womankind not to ride that like a John Deere, given the opportunity?

Also? He smells _really_ good, and at this point she’s convinced it’s not just cologne but some kind of, like, natural pheromone that makes women lose control in his presence.

So Felicity grabs him and kisses him. Hard.

His mouth is hot and tastes of spearmint and something unmistakably Oliver. She laps it up, arching her body against his, and he presses into her, pinning her against the wall and dragging his thumb over her cheek as their mouths slide together. The man can kiss, that’s for damn sure.

Her fingers dig into his sides, tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt, and he pushes away from her suddenly and reaches behind his back, dragging his shirt off over his head.

Felicity’s brain fuzzes into static at the sight of his bare chest and shoulders and— _my God, his abs_. She is definitely going to lick those abs tonight. For science.

When he presses into her again, and his bare skin touches her skin, it’s like a religious experience. Her hands move worshipfully over the hard ridges of his stomach, awed that she’s actually allowed to touch.

She can feel Oliver smile against her mouth when he kisses her again, holding her face in both hands. He nips at her lower lip, then soothes it with his tongue, and Felicity melts against him, knees weak, moaning into his mouth.

“Felicity,” he murmurs, his voice rough and filled with promise. “Do you want to show me your bedroom?”

She does. She really, really does.

***

Felicity is jarred awake in the morning by the harsh, tinny sound of “Pocketful of Sunshine” blaring from her phone.

“Unnggg,” she groans, rolling toward the nightstand. She feels around blindly, but her phone’s not where she usually leaves it. Her glasses aren’t either, and she nearly ends up knocking the lamp over with her flailing.

“Make it _stop,”_ Oliver mumbles into his pillow.

“Sorry,” Felicity mutters, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Which doesn’t help all that much, because she’s not wearing her glasses. She squints in the direction the hateful sound is coming from and spots a blurry pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Right. Her phone was in her pocket last night when Oliver peeled off her clothes.

She crawls down to the foot of the bed and fumbles around on the floor until she finally lays hands on the accursed device, breathing a sigh of relief as she silences the damn thing.

Oliver is lying on his stomach with the sheets tangled up beneath him, utterly, gloriously naked. Felicity would love nothing more than to crawl back into bed and wrap herself around him, but she’s got a seven o’clock call time this morning and she needs to get up and get moving.

Which is really too bad, because _Oliver Queen_ is in her bed and … damn. Seriously. _Damn._ She’s always been keenly aware of his attractiveness, but lying there all stretched out and naked, he’s fucking breathtaking.

And she had sex with him last night.

Multiple, multiple times.

“Are you staring at my ass?” Oliver asks without opening his eyes _._

“Maybe,” Felicity admits. “It’s really nice ass. And I like the way it looks in my bed.”

“C’mere.” He rolls over, reaching for her, and she lets him pull her down for a kiss. God, even his morning breath is amazing. How is he real?

“I have to tell you something,” Oliver says, pulling back and looking at her very seriously.

Felicity freezes, her heart stuttering to a stop. “What?”

“You bed sucks. Next time we’re sleeping in my bed.”

_Next time._

He said _next time_. Which means there’s going to _be_ a next time.

Felicity crawls on top of him and kisses the everloving shit out of him.

“Don’t you need to get ready for work?” he asks, shifting his hips suggestively beneath hers.

“Screw work,” she says. “I can be late.”

***

Yep, Felicity is late.

She _hates_ being late. Not that it wasn’t totally worth it, but now she’s paying the price, having to rush through all her preparations for the day’s shooting.

“Morning!” Barry says cheerfully, holding the door to the soundstage for her.

“Morning,” she mutters, hurrying past him with her head down.

She’s convinced everyone can tell, that it’s written across her face like a giant, blinking neon sign: _I slept with Oliver Queen, ask me anything!_

Also, she’s pretty sure she’s walking funny. Oliver is in really stupendously good cardio shape, okay? And she is … not so much. It’s been a long time since she’s been that … active, and she is definitely feeling it this morning.

Without making eye contact with anyone, Felicity makes a beeline for her chair and busies herself setting up her laptop and marking up the script pages for the first scene of the day.

Oliver strolls in a few minutes later. He hasn’t changed into his wardrobe yet, and the first thing she thinks when she sees him is that she knows what he looks like under his clothes. Every inch of him. Not only that, but she knows what his skin tastes like, and the sound he makes when he comes, and that he likes it when she uses just a little bit of teeth.

Yeah. Today is going to be … interesting.

He takes his time, stopping to chat with a few people before finally making his way over to her. “Morning,” he greets her brightly, like they didn’t just see each other a half hour ago. Naked. Super naked. Totally, totally naked.

“Morning,” Felicity mumbles, feeling herself color as she ducks her head.

Thanks to their morning workout, they didn’t have a chance to talk about how they’re supposed to act around each other at work. How to play this. What _this_ even is.

“So …” Oliver starts uncertainly, and Felicity looks back up at him. His eyes roam over her face like he’s trying to decide whether to say whatever he was about to say.

And then Diggle walks up, claps Oliver on the back, and asks Felicity a question about the first shot. Oliver drifts away with an apologetic smile as she tries to concentrate on answering Diggle’s question coherently.

They don’t have another chance to talk until later in the morning. After Diggle calls a fifteen-minute break, Oliver makes a beeline to her side.

“Come with me,” he says, taking her by the arm and sweeping her out of the stage, down the hall, and into a storage room stacked with boxes of office supplies. As soon as the door closes, his arms wrap around her, and he pulls her into a kiss.

It’s amazing, and she doesn’t want him to stop, but—

“We need to talk,” she says, pushing on his shoulders. “About work.”

He stops kissing her. “Okay.”

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Okay,” he says again, his expression carefully neutral. “What page are you on?”

Felicity swallows. “I just think it would be best if we kept this—whatever this is—to ourselves. For now. If we didn’t bring it to work with us.”

He lets go of her and steps back. “If that’s what you want.”

She misses his touch as soon as it’s gone, but resists the urge to close the distance between them. “I just don’t want it affecting my job. People find out about something like this and they start treating you differently. They start thinking things and saying things—”

“I understand,” he says, cutting her off.

She bites her lip and rubs her palms on her jeans, feeling fidgety and awkward. “Do you?”

His expression softens, and he reaches for her hand. “I do. It’s okay. Really.”

She clutches at his hand, tugging him closer. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. You know that, right?”

He presses his lips together. “It has a little to do with me.”

“No,” she says, “it doesn’t. I’m just trying to keep things professional when we’re at work.”

He nods. “I can be professional.”

“Thank you.”

“As long as you let me be unprofessional when we’re at home.” His hand skims up her arm, sending a shiver of goosebumps across the surface of her skin.

Felicity launches herself at him and closes her mouth over his.

“I thought you wanted to be professional,” Oliver says when they come up for air.

“Well, we’re already here,” she points out pragmatically. “And we’ve got ten minutes left until we have to get back. We might as well make the most of it.”

They do.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people are feeling low right now, and I'm not sure how many of us are in the mood to read fanfic today, but I suspect there are at least a few of you out there who could use a temporary distraction from real life. 
> 
> For those feeling fragile, fair warning that there are a couple of angsty moments in this chapter, but [spoiler alert!] everything's okay again by the end. If you're in need of a happy place, I hope this can be it for a little while. Oh, and also, I've upped the rating for this story to mature. There won't be any explicit smut, but things do get a little racier from here on out.

 

They’re pretty good at the professional thing, as it turns out.

Oliver’s an actor, so he’s good at putting on masks and taking them off again. And Felicity has had a lot of practice at swallowing her feelings and operating on autopilot. So yeah. It’s fine.

It’s especially fine after work that night, when Oliver kneels on the rug in front of his big leather couch, hoists her legs over his shoulders, and goes down on her until she begs for mercy. That part is extremely fine.

Also fine is the night after that, when he has his way with her on his kitchen island, although it leaves her with a few colorful bruises in interesting places. His bed is quite nice, too. She loves how ridiculously soft his Egyptian cotton sheets feel on her skin as his hips pin her against the mattress. And has she mentioned that his shower is big enough to fit like ten people? It even has nice roomy bench, which they make copious use of.

Oliver a spectacular lay, is what she’s saying. Generous, too. Which, for a pretty boy actor, is about as rare as a snowstorm in Los Angeles. See also: one of the reasons why Felicity doesn’t date actors anymore.

Basically, the sex part is excellent.

The part that’s less excellent is when Felicity has to watch him do scenes with Sara.

There’s always a weird sort of disconnect whenever Oliver slips in and out of character. Because he’s not the Oliver she knows anymore when he’s in character. He’s something else. Some _one_ else. It can be a little disorienting.

But when he’s acting affectionate with someone who isn’t her? When he’s _touching_ someone who isn’t her? And gazing lovingly into her eyes? It’s actively hard to watch.

Felicity tells herself that it’s all just pretend, but then she’ll recognize an expression or a gesture that Oliver’s used on her. That’s _his,_ not his character’s. Because they’re not actually two separate people, so of course there’s going to be bleed over. And it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

But she’s a professional, so she swallows it down. She’s really good at swallowing things. (That’s what Oliver told her last night, anyway.)

They never did get around to having any kind of talk about what, exactly, they’re doing, but she’s not naive, she knows how these things work. Oliver’s almost as famous for his sleeping around as he is for his acting, and he’s already told her he’s not the commitment type. Which is fine. She’s not expecting this to go anywhere. It’s not like he’s someone she can picture settling down to a long, happy future with. They don’t have to talk about it. If he doesn’t feel the need to put a label on it, then she’s not going to be the one to bring it up.

She’s not in a _relationship_ with Oliver Queen, she’s just sleeping with him. Relationships are about feelings and commitment and baggage. Whatever it is that she and Oliver are doing, it’s not about feelings. Just sex. Lots and lots of sex. Like a friends-with-benefits arrangement, although that might be presuming too much in the friends department. Fuckbuddies is probably closer to the mark, distasteful as it sounds.

Whatever. Felicity is totally okay with it. She’s getting sexed up on the regular by a man who looks like a Greek god, and Oliver’s getting—she’s not actually sure what Oliver’s getting out of this, other than the obvious, but whatever it is, he seems to be enjoying it for the moment. So that’s what she’s doing, too. Enjoying herself. Living in the moment. Not thinking about the future, because there isn’t one. Not for her and Oliver. And that’s fine.

Iris was totally wrong about her. She can separate sex from emotion. She’s totally doing it. See? Look at her, sleeping with Oliver Queen, notorious womanizer, and not feeling a thing (except for the many, many orgasms—she definitely feels _those_ ).

The only relationship Felicity is interested in right now is her relationship with the cup of coffee in her hand, because Oliver kept her up way too late again last night. She is so far behind on her sleep at this point she’s considering having a central line put in for a caffeine IV.

(It’s fine, she’ll sleep when she’s dead.)

Coffee is her one true soulmate, and their love will never die.

***

“Am I really that boring?” Iris asks, tossing a wadded up napkin at Felicity across the lunch table.

“Huh?” Felicity says eloquently, looking up from her salad.

“That’s like the fifth time you’ve yawned in the last two minutes. You’re practically falling asleep in your radicchio.”

“Sorry, it’s not you, I’m just behind on my sleep.”

It’s Friday, and Felicity has spent every night this week with Oliver. She keeps waiting for him to say he’s not in the mood to hang out, but every night, as soon as she gets home, there he is at her door. Luring her over to his house with offers of fantastic sex. It’s hard to pass up—not that she wants to. She can’t get enough of him. Spending a whole day at work carefully keeping their distance and pretending to be indifferent to one another leaves her aching to touch him, like a junkie going through withdrawal.

Which is probably not a great analogy to use with a recovering addict, and she makes a mental note never to say it aloud.

“Oliver keeping you up at night?” Iris teases.

Felicity stares at her plate and concentrates on stabbing a cherry tomato.

“Shut the front door! You’re _sleeping_ with him?”

“Shhh, keep your voice down,” Felicity hisses, glancing around the commissary to makes sure no one heard.

Iris leans forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we’re not telling anyone.”

“Why?”

Felicity shrugs. “Because it’s no big deal, and I’d rather it wasn’t common knowledge around the set, or, you know, on the front page of Perez Hilton.”

“How can you say it’s no big deal? You’re sleeping with _Ollie Queen._ Like, _Teen Beat_ Ollie Queen. Did you know I had a poster of him in my room when I was twelve? Right above my bed, next to my Destiny’s Child poster.”

“I was too busy crushing on Hayden Christensen,” Felicity admits.

Iris sits back and makes a face. “Ew, really?”

“It was a dark time, I don’t like to talk about it.” Her teenage devotion to _Episodes I-III_ is one of the more regrettable chapters of her adolescence, along with the perm she got in eighth grade. “Anyway, it’s not like we’re dating or anything. It’s all very casual.”

Iris lifts an eyebrow. “When have you ever been casual about a man in your life?”

“I’m trying something new. Like you said: no emotion, just sex.”

“Yeah? How’s it going so far?”

“Excellent, thanks for asking.”

Iris looks skeptical. “Okay, but is he actually good in bed?”

Felicity can’t help the smile that spreads across her face. “Better than good.”

“Really? Because usually when they’re that pretty they can’t find the g-spot with a headlamp and a map.”

“He can find it just fine,” Felicity assures her. “Trust me.”

Iris shakes her head sadly. “Girl, you are so doomed. No way you’re not falling for him.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say, glass house. How are things with Barry?”

At the mere mention of his name, Iris’ face lights up in a giddy grin. “It’s really great.”

Felicity has never seen her like this over a man. Iris is supposed to the be cool-headed one. The tough, practical woman who doesn’t lose her senses over a guy. Going all sappy and goo-goo eyed is Felicity’s job. And now look the two of them. How the tables have turned.

“So you guys are really serious?” Felicity asks.

“Yeah.” Iris nods slowly. “I think …” She pauses, and her expression turns adorably sheepish. “I think I love him.”

Felicity reaches for her hand, beaming. “Iris!”

“I know!” Iris agrees enthusiastically.

“Have you told him?”

Iris shakes her head, still smiling. “Not yet. But soon, maybe.”

Felicity is so, so happy for her. And for Barry. Genuinely.

But she’s happy for herself, too.

She doesn’t need what they have. She’s perfectly content with things the way they are between her and Oliver.

Everyone has exactly what they want. Life couldn’t be better.

***

“What are you in the mood for?” Oliver asks Felicity that night as he thumbs through a pile of takeout menus.

They’re at his place. They’re always at his place, because it’s nicer and bigger than her place. It’s hard to be annoyed about it, since her place is literally ten yards away, so she can always just run next door whenever she needs something. The only time real Felicity’s spent at her house this week has been when she’s getting ready for work in the mornings.

She leans against him, peering over his shoulder at the menus scattered across the kitchen counter. “We could always go out.”

He makes a face. “Eh.”

“Or not.”

He looks over at her, and his eyebrows scrunch together in a way she finds completely adorable. “Did you want to go out?”

She shrugs. “It was just an idea. I’m not married to it or anything.”

“Someone might recognize me, is the thing.”

She nods and leans back against the counter beside him. “Right.”

“Going out in public can be kind of a hassle.”

“Sure.” She actually forgets, sometimes, that he’s a big famous movie star. He’s just Oliver to her now. _Her_ Oliver. At least for the time being.

His hand snakes around her waist and tugs her up against his hips. “Besides …” He bends his head and nuzzles against her ear. “If we stay in, we don’t have to wear so many clothes.”

“Mmmm,” she sighs, shivering. “Good point. _Very_ good point.”

“I thought so.” His tongue darts against her ear, and she shivers again. “But if you want to go out instead …”

Her hands curl around his upper arms. “Nope. I’m good.”

“You sure?” he asks, sucking on the spot behind her ear. The one that makes her knees wobble.

“So—so sure,” she mumbles, clinging to him for balance.

Oliver’s hands settle around her ribcage. She loves his hands. They’re big and warm and just the right amount of rough. She likes the feel of them on her body. She likes the things he does with them to her body.

“What do you feel like ordering?” he asks, his breath hot on her neck.

“Whatever you want.” She’s way too distracted by what he’s doing with his tongue on her neck to think about food right now.

His hands slide down to her waist. “Are you hungry?”

“Mmmm.” She’s hungry, all right, but not for food.

He pulls back to look at her. “We can order something now if you want.”

She reaches up and threads her fingers through his hair. She loves his hair. She loves that she gets to touch it.

He smiles. “Or …”

Her hand slides down to the side of his neck, so she can pet his scruff. He closes his eyes and makes a purring sound, leaning into her touch.

“Or?” she prompts when he doesn’t say anything.

He opens his eyes, and his fingers dig into her hips. “Or we could order later.”

“Definitely later,” she says, nodding. “Later would be better.”

“Later,” he agrees, and kisses her, deep enough to bend her head back. His hands cup her ass, and Felicity wraps her legs around his waist as he lifts her off the floor.

They don’t get around to ordering food until much, _much_ later.

***

 _Is a sex hangover a thing?_ Felicity wonders on Monday.

She and Oliver spent the entire weekend in a blissful sex bubble. It started with several rounds of vigorous Friday night sex, followed up by sleepy Saturday morning sex, which led to seductive omelet-making (who knew omelet-making could be sexy, but when Oliver did that flip thing with the pan— _oh boy_ ), then some lazy afternoon making out, which turned into snuggly napping. After that came a round of shower sex, followed by takeout and some quality cuddling in front of the television, capped off by yet another round of acrobatic sex.

And Sunday it was second verse, same as the first.

But now it’s Monday and she’s paying the price for their mini-sexcation. She is _definitely_ walking funny—the chafing situation is real, not to mention the beard burn in some … interesting places.

To make matters worse, they’re doing night shoots all week, and she definitely did not get as much sleep as she should have during the day today, thanks to Oliver. Who is not even shooting tonight, so here she is in a damp, grimy warehouse at two o’clock in the morning (which—okay—technically makes it Tuesday, but the important part is that it _feels_ like Monday), paying the price for their folly all by herself.

The scene they’re shooting tonight is super intense, too. Ray’s character has abducted Sara’s character and is trying to scare her into giving up the information he needs. Sara’s in her underwear again (of course), and Ray’s screaming at her and punching his fist into the wall next to her head with such fury that Felicity honestly doesn’t know how he hasn’t broken his hand yet. And then he has to grab Sara by the throat and throw her roughly to the ground.

Both actors have worked with the stunt team so they can do it without hurting themselves—or each other—but it’s really hard to watch. Ray is being genuinely scary, and Sara’s curled up on the ground with tears pouring down her face, shaking and crying and begging for mercy. Felicity doesn’t know how she can generate all that emotion over and over again, but she does.

Every time they finish a take, Ray bends down and helps Sara off the ground with an apologetic smile. And then they reset for the next one, and he goes right back to being the scary guy screaming at her.

When they take their first break to reset the camera, Sara shrugs into her robe and fumbles in the pocket for her cigarettes.

“You’re doing great,” Diggle tells her. “Really believable.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got some experience with it,” Sara says, lighting her cigarette with a shaking hand.

Diggle wraps one of his big arms around her small shoulders and gives her a fatherly squeeze. “Just a few more times,” he says gently. “And then we’ll be done.”

***

When Felicity finally gets home at seven in the morning, she doesn’t have it in her to do anything but crawl straight into bed. Alone. Because she _has_ to get some real sleep or she will actually die.

She doesn’t see Oliver until they’re both on set that night, and he teases her about how tired and cranky she is and texts her dumb jokes and silly pictures to try and cheer her up. But in the morning, at the end of a long, brutal night of shooting an action sequence in a rail yard, they both go straight home and crash—separately. Because night shoots are hell.

The problem is that Felicity just doesn’t adjust well to sleeping during the day, no matter how virtuous she tries to be about it. All the sleep masks and white noise machines in the world aren’t enough to lull her into a deep, restful sleep when her body knows the sun is shining outside. Even the Xanax doesn’t make more than a small dent in her insomnia, so she only ever manages to get a few hours of fitful sleep, no matter how tired she is or how long she lies in bed. It’s always like this for her, though—her body never seems to get used to the new schedule until it’s time to adjust back the other direction. She’s accepted the unpleasant inevitability of it, but if anything ever makes her quit the business, it’s going to be this.

Infuriatingly, Oliver seems to take it in stride, like it’s no big deal to flip his sleep schedule 180 degrees on a dime. When she asks him about it, he simply shrugs and says he’s used to dealing with insomnia, and it doesn’t much matter whether he’s having it at night or during the day. She can’t even be jealous of him, because that really kind of sucks, but it’s still annoying how revoltingly cheerful he manages to be on set.

Meanwhile, Felicity spends the shooting week in a zombie-like daze of exhaustion. The hours from six p.m. to six a.m. are spent desperately mainlining coffee and trying to keep her eyes open at whatever unpleasant outdoor location they’re occupying for the night, and the hours from six a.m. to six p.m. are spent in bed, tossing and turning and trying to will herself to fall asleep.

Oliver generously offers to tire her out, but on top of everything else, she’s started her period and honestly? Even if she hadn’t she probably wouldn’t be in the mood. Insomnia makes her too irritable for sex. PMS _plus_ insomnia makes her unfit for human company entirely.

So basically the only times she and Oliver are together all week are on set, where they have to keep their distance and act like nothing’s going on. Which isn’t doing anything to improve her mood, because she misses being close to him. She misses the smell of him, and the warm solidness of his body, and how safe and secure she feels in his arms.

She’s going through Oliver withdrawal, is basically the problem. And the only solution is to grit her teeth and get through it, to make it to Saturday, when they’re done with night shoots, and they have the whole rest of the weekend to spend together.

Thursday night, they’re shooting on a hotel rooftop in the Central Business District, which is at least an upgrade from all the gloomy industrial sites they’ve been at this week. It’s about two hours before dawn when Oliver finds Felicity staring out vacantly at the cityscape.

“Hanging in there?” he asks, his arm brushing against hers as he joins her at the railing. He’s dressed in a suit for the scene, and he reaches up to loosen his tie.

She nods half-heartedly, suppressing a yawn. “I really hate night shoots.”

“Me too.” His gaze drifts to the wide, dark river snaking through the city below them. “There’s something kind of magical about being out in the world this time of night, though. It feels otherworldly.”

“It’s a liminal space,” Felicity murmurs.

Oliver’s eyes swing to hers. “What’s that?”

“A place of transition. Reality feels altered because you’re leaving the familiar behind and waiting for something new to begin, but you don’t know what it’s going to be yet. The hours before dawn are like that—yesterday’s over, but tomorrow hasn’t started yet, so you’re hovering in this moment of ambiguity. Or something like that, anyway.”

Clearly, she’s half-delirious from throwing too much caffeine on top of too little sleep, otherwise she wouldn’t be babbling at Oliver about liminal spaces, of all things. But he just smiles at her fondly and says, “I never thought of it that way.”

She shrugs. “It can be a trigger of anxiety. Not everyone’s good at existing in ambiguity.”

His hand closes over hers. They shouldn’t be holding hands like this where everyone can see, but she’s missed his touch so much she can’t bring herself to pull away.

“You have to trust that the next step is going to be one you can handle,” Oliver says quietly. “The Program taught me that.”

Felicity leans into him a little, and they watch the eastern horizon for the first glimmer of the new day’s light.

***

By the time Saturday morning rolls around, and they’re finally released from the living hell of night shoots, Felicity is so dead she actually sleeps for ten hours straight.

She wakes at six o’clock to a text from Oliver: _Going to dinner with Sara c u later._

So. Okay. Great.

It’s only their first night off all week. And he wants to spend it with Sara.

That’s … fine.

They’re being casual, right? That’s what Felicity said. All sex and no feelings. Which means Oliver’s free to spend his time however he wants, with whomever he wants. So what if they haven’t been alone or even so much as kissed in days? That was her choice, not his.

He’s not obligated to spend time with her any more than she’s obligated to spend time with him. It’s not like they’re actually dating or anything. They’re just hooking up, and he doesn’t feel like hooking up tonight. Not with her, anyway.

Felicity stays in her pajamas all night and eats a pint of ice cream for dinner while she waits for Oliver to come home. Sometime after one a.m. she finally gives up on him and goes to bed.

He texts her the next morning at ten o’clock: _U up?_

When she opens the door to him, he steps straight into her arms, bending her back a little when he kisses her. “I missed you,” he murmurs, burying his face in her hair.

She missed him, too, so she doesn’t ask what he was doing with Sara last night, and she doesn’t object when he takes her hand and leads her upstairs to his bed.

***

“I’m sorry about last night,” Oliver says later, nuzzling the back of her neck as they’re basking in post-coital contentment.

Felicity can’t help stiffening slightly. “It’s fine.” She’s aiming for a breezy tone but falls a little short of the mark.

His arms tighten around her, and his lips press against her shoulder. “It’s not fine. I wanted to be with you.”

She turns in his arms so she can look him in the eye. “Then why did you go out with Sara?” She wasn’t going to say anything, but if he’s going to bring it up, she feels like she’s allowed to ask.

He sighs, his palm skimming up the outside of her thigh and over her hipbone. “Because she needed me.”

“What does that mean?”

He hesitates, like he’s … not guilty, exactly. Something close to it, though. “Sara’s not …” He pauses, considering his words before he says them. “I know she struts around all the time like she’s fine, but she’s not.”

“Okay,” Felicity says slowly. That’s not what she was expecting to hear, and she’s not sure what it even means.

“Remember how I told you Sara and I were a lot alike? Well …”

“Oh,” Felicity says. “ _Oh_.” Relief washes over her as she finally understands what Oliver’s hinting at, which in turn makes her feel like a heartless dick.

He ducks his head so she can’t see his eyes. “I’m not saying she’s … she’s nowhere near as bad as I was, but … she’s struggling with some things. Things I can understand better than most people.”

Felicity tries to reconcile her idea of perfect Sara Lance with what Oliver is telling her. It’s not all that hard to do, especially after Sara’s comment on location last week. She can see how someone like Sara, who followed in her sister’s footsteps to find fame at a young age, might be just as damaged as Oliver. Hollywood is brutal on its young stars, and very few make it through the gristmill without scar tissue.

“Is she okay?” Felicity asks.

Oliver lets out a breath, nodding. “She and Nyssa had a fight yesterday. Hopefully, it’ll blow over.” He looks so relieved she’s not mad that Felicity feels like a first-class jerk for ever being upset last night.

She runs her fingers through his hair and over the stubble on his cheek. “I’m sorry to hear that, I hope they work it out. I think it’s really great that you’re such a good friend to her.”

He props himself up on one arm and pushes her onto her back, kissing her. She sighs against his mouth, and he sucks her lower lip between his teeth before shifting his weight and curling his body around hers again.

“I’d rather have been with you,” he murmurs, resting his head between her breasts. “I’d always rather be with you.”

Felicity blinks, barely able to breathe around the lump in her throat.

Maybe what they have _is_ real. She hasn’t let herself think about what happens after the shoot ends, because the idea of losing Oliver terrifies her. But maybe she doesn’t have to lose him. Maybe things can stay the way they are, even after they go back to LA.

He shifts, nuzzling his face into her breasts. “Hey, did I tell you I might do a play in New York? Off Broadway, but it’s real meaty stuff. I’m going to fly out there and take some meetings after I wrap here.”

_Or maybe not._

A play. That’s like a six-month commitment, at least. Maybe more. In New York. The opposite side of the country from where Felicity lives.

“That’s great,” she says, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m really happy for you.”

The thing about working on a film—especially on location—is that it’s a little like going away to war. The relationships you forge on set are accelerated by the stressful schedule and the forced separation from friends and family. But those bonds can be just as fleeting as they are intense. Sometimes relationships last beyond the production, and sometimes people drop right out of your life again as soon as principal photography ends.

Felicity has no idea which it’s going to be with Oliver, but she always knew there was a chance he was going to lose interest in her as soon as he went back to his regular life in LA. More than a chance. A likelihood.

She’s been down this road before, you see, and she knows how it usually turns out.

“Do you want me to make you mac and cheese for dinner?” Oliver asks.

“Always,” she says, holding him tighter.

***

“I went to the gym with Ray this morning,” Oliver tells Felicity on Monday night.

It’s raining, and they’re curled up together on his couch, watching a basketball game. Well, _he’s_ watching a basketball game. Felicity’s only pretending to watch the game.

Her sleep schedule is still recovering from last week, so mostly she’s just trying to stay awake until they get to the sex portion of the evening. Honestly, what she’d really like to do is put on her pajamas and crawl into bed, but they’ve only got so many nights left together, and Oliver wanted to watch basketball, so here she is.

“There’s nothing like watching someone warm up with your max to make you question your manhood,” he grumbles. She hums noncommittally, and he digs a finger in her ribs, honing in right on her ticklish spot. “This is the part where you’re supposed to reassure me that my manhood is unmatched, regardless of how much I can bench.”

Felicity pushes his hand away. “Your manhood is perfectly adequate.” She means it as a joke, but it doesn’t have have quite the lighthearted zing she was going for.

Oliver’s quiet for a moment before he says, “Something wrong?”

“I’m just tired. Today was a long day.” A long day of watching Oliver and Sara hang all over each other. Which might also have something to do with her mood.

They were shooting an emotional reunion scene where Oliver finds Sara after believing she’s dead, and there was a lot of crying and hugging and kissing all day. Felicity’s still trying to shake the bad taste it left in her mouth. At least he took a shower when he got home, so she doesn’t have to smell Sara’s perfume on him anymore.

“Is it the basketball? Because you said you didn’t mind watching the game, but I’m happy to turn it off if you—”

“I don’t care about the basketball,” Felicity says, more snappishly than she means to. Oops.

“Okay,” Oliver says slowly, recoiling a bit.

“I think I’m just going to go back to my place and sleep in my own bed tonight,” she says, pushing herself to her feet.

“Hey, Felicity! _Hey!”_ He propels himself off the couch and makes it to the door at the same time she does, blocking her exit with an arm stretched across the doorway. “Will you please tell me what’s going on? Did I do something?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“What are we doing?” she blurts out.

Oliver’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What?”

“You and me.” She didn’t plan to be having this conversation tonight, but now that she’s started it she might as well finish. “Is this just a hook up? Or is it something more?”

His face goes blank, so she can’t tell what he’s thinking. “What do you want it to be?”

“I’m asking you.”

He gives her one of his smarmy movie star smiles. “I want whatever you want,” he says, trying to use his charm on her.

It’s the wrong move, because she’s not in the mood for his games.

“Right,” she grits out and ducks under his arm, done with this conversation.

“Wait.” He catches her by the wrist. “Please.” His voice breaks a little on the _please,_ which is the only reason she turns around.

“I’m tired of not knowing what we are,” she admits with a sigh. “If don’t know if we’re dating. Or if you even date.”

“I date,” he says a little defensively.

“Are you dating _me_?”

“I kind of thought so, yeah.” He sounds annoyed, like she was magically supposed to know that somehow.

“Well, it’s a little hard to tell since we’ve never actually gone anywhere together.”

“ _You’re_ the one who wanted to keep it a secret.” Wow. He’s projecting some active resentment at her right now, which is so not fair.

“Because I didn’t want to be judged at work for who I’m sleeping with! We’re not at work 24/7.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have the luxury of living my life incognito. If we go out in public, we’ll get spotted together.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You will when your picture ends up on TMZ,” Oliver shoots back. “Trust me.”

“Wait,” Felicity says, as it finally hits her what he just said. “So, we _are_ dating?”

The defensiveness drains out of him. “I mean … yeah? Assuming you want to be.”

“I want to be.”

He exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

His eyebrows scrunch together in that way she finds completely adorable. “Why are we fighting?”

“We’re not.”

“Good.” He steps into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his face into her neck. “I don’t want to fight.”

She holds onto him as tight as she can. “Me neither.”

He sighs against her, and she feels the tension in his muscles release.

“Oliver?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you going to keep dating me after we wrap?”

He lifts his head, and his eyes crinkle as he smiles at her. “I sure as hell hope so.”

“What about the play?”

His smile fades. “I don’t know.” He presses his lips against her forehead. “We’ll figure it out, though, okay?”

Felicity reaches for his face and runs her fingers over his stubble. She loves his stubble; she wants to pet it always.

“Okay,” she says, and kisses him.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, you guys! The very last chapter! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much to all of you who've come along on this ride with me and been so encouraging along the way.

Most of Oliver’s last week on set is devoted to shooting the big climactic action sequence that takes place on the train the film gets its name from. Shooting inside the out-of-commission passenger car set up in front of green screens is cramped, difficult work. Oliver spends his days covered in fake blood, performing grueling stunt sequences that leave him bruised and exhausted at the end of every day.

Not so exhausted that they can’t make the most of their remaining few nights together, though. Oliver’s more amorous and attentive than ever, and Felicity finds she has a harder time keeping her hands off him when they’re at work, which means they get a little less discreet about their relationship.

“You’ve got something in your hair,” Caitlin points out, reaching for Felicity’s ponytail. “Is that prop blood?” she asks, rubbing her fingers together

“What?” Felicity grabs her ponytail and pulls it in front of her face. “Uh … oops?” She and Oliver were making out in his trailer at lunch, and she tried to be careful not to get any of the sticky red goo on her, but apparently she was not entirely successful.

Caitlin gives her knowing smile and reaches for her makeup remover. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Even though Felicity’s trying to savor every moment, the days seem to pass at hyperspeed. Before she knows it, it’s Friday and they’re calling a wrap on Oliver. There’s a cake big enough for the whole crew, and a lot of hugging and picture taking, and tears on more than a few faces.

Felicity has to stay in New Orleans for another few days of pick-ups next week, but Oliver is leaving for LA on Sunday. What’s worse is that by the time Felicity gets back to Los Angeles at the end of next week, Oliver will already be gone. He’s flying to New York on Wednesday to take some meetings and do a photo shoot for a short _Esquire_ profile, immediately followed by two weeks in Tokyo to shoot a commercial for some video game.

They’re going to be apart for almost a month, which is longer than they’ve actually been together. A separation that long would test even an established, solid relationship. Who knows what it will do to her and Oliver?

But that’s a problem for the future. First, there’s a wrap party to go to on Saturday night.

Felicity is so not in the mood for a party. There’s probably a German word for that sense of nostalgia you get for something that’s not over yet—whatever the word is, she’s got a bad case of it. Her mother would just call it borrowing trouble.

Oliver actually seems excited about the party, so Felicity tries to put on a cheerful face for his sake. She’s not super successful, unfortunately.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks her the second time she doesn’t laugh at one of his jokes. They’re in his Audi, on the way to the bar the production rented out for the party, and he reaches across the console for her hand.

She laces her fingers with his and squeezes. “Doesn’t it make you sad that tonight is the last time we’re all going to be together? I’m not ready for it to be over.”

He squeezes her hand back. “It does, but not sad enough to keep me from enjoying the time we have left.”

Felicity nods. It’s exactly what her therapist would want her to say. If only it were that easy.

“Besides, tonight’s a big night,” Oliver says cheerfully. “It’s our first official date.”

They talked about it yesterday, and Felicity agreed that there was no reason to keep hiding their relationship now that Oliver was done shooting. They aren’t working together anymore, so it doesn’t matter if anyone knows about them.

Which means the wrap party is going to be their debut as a couple in front of their friends and coworkers.

It’s possible Felicity’s a little bit nervous about it. But also maybe a little excited.

Oliver brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

***

As soon as they walk in the door of the club, Oliver transforms into his genial party persona, but this time he keeps his hand firmly on Felicity’s waist as they make the rounds of the room together. Instead of checking on everyone else to make sure they’re having a good time, he keeps checking on _her_ , giving her a smile or a light stroke of his hand every few minutes to let her know he hasn’t forgotten about her.

It’s a revelation, being around other people and having Oliver pay more attention to her than to everyone else for once. Knowing that she actually _is_ special.

“I knew it!” Curtis exclaims triumphantly when he sees them. “I knew there was something going on with y’all!”

No one seems particularly surprised to see them together, as it turns out. Apparently they weren’t that good at hiding it after all.

Diggle doesn’t comment on it at all, but the smug look he gives Felicity before he pulls her in for a hug speaks volumes.

There’s an old school photo booth set up for the party, and everyone take turns squeezing into it in different combinations, trying to see just how many bodies they can cram in there at once. Oliver pulls Felicity into the booth for a session with just the two of them and kisses her the whole time the camera’s flashing. When the machine spits out the strip of four black and white photos, he tears it in half, giving two of the snaps to Felicity before tucking the other two into his wallet.

Sara and Nyssa show up an hour later. Sara wrapped two days before Oliver, but stayed in town for the party—and maybe also for Nyssa. They arrive together, but Sara’s not out to the public, and the tabloids would have a field day if they got wind that she was bi, so she and Nyssa are careful to not to engage in any PDA where someone might take a picture of them.

When the dancing starts, Oliver begs off, so Felicity lets Iris and Caitlin drag her off. She stays on the dance floor through three songs before taking a break and making her way back to Oliver.

“Your cheeks are all pink,” he says, smiling at her.

“That’s because I’m sweating.”

“Mmmm, I know.” He bends down to kiss her. “It’s amazing.”

She laughs against his mouth. “Weirdo.”

“You should probably drink some water, though. I’ll get it for you.”

She loves how he’s always taking care of her. It’s one of her favorite things about him.

While Oliver’s off at the bar, Sara comes bounding over and throws her arms around Felicity’s neck.

“I’m so happy for you,” Sara says into her ear, hugging her hard. Her skin is hot and sticky, and her breath smells like whiskey.

“Thanks?” Felicity says, hugging her back, even though she doesn’t know what Sara’s talking about.

Sara releases her and then grabs both of Felicity’s shoulders, staring at her in that really intense way that drunk people have. “He’s a great guy. And he adores you. I hope you know that.”

“You mean Oliver?”

Sara nods. “You’ve been really good for him. He’s like a thousand times happier around you.”

“Really?” Felicity asks, feeling herself grin.

“Really,” Sara says, nodding some more.

“Hey,” Oliver says, coming back with Felicity’s ice water.

Sara lets go of Felicity and gives Oliver a big, sloppy hug.

His eyebrows lift, one of his arms wrapping around Sara while he passes Felicity her water. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Sara says, grabbing Felicity and pulling her into a three-way hug. “I just love you guys so much.”

“We love you too,” Oliver says, frowning slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yep!” Sara says. “Fan-fucking-tastic.” She releases them and bounces off to join the dancing.

“Is she all right?” Felicity asks, watching Sara on the dance floor.

Oliver shrugs and shakes his head slightly. “Who knows?”

“Do you wanna—”

“No,” Oliver says, turning back to Felicity and dropping a kiss on her lips. “Tonight’s about the two of us. Sara can take care of herself.”

They spend the rest of the night glued to each other, until it’s time for Oliver get up on stage, alongside Diggle and Sara and Ray and Curtis, to thank everyone for all of their hard work on the film. When they’ve all made their speeches, Curtis cues the DJ, and the same *NSYNC song they lip-synched to at the party starts up. Oliver rolls his eyes at Sara, but he good-naturedly sings along, even managing to look like he’s having a good time as they all do the dance moves together. Half the people there have their phones out, recording the performance, so it’s a good bet video of it will be all over the internet by tomorrow.

As soon as the song’s over, Oliver flees the stage and sinks gratefully into Felicity’s waiting arms. “You were amazing,” she tells him.

“That fucking song,” he mutters. “So embarrassing.”

“I thought you looked hot,” she murmurs, nuzzling against his neck.

He turns his head to capture her lips, and what starts out as a soft kiss quickly turns heated. “Are you ready to get out of here?” he breathes when they finally break apart.

She thought he’d never ask.

Felicity’s hand stays tightly clamped on Oliver’s thigh the whole drive home. Every time he stops at a red light, he covers it with his, stroking his thumb across her knuckles and casting fevered glances her way.

They barely make it inside his house before they’re tearing at each other’s clothes.

Their kisses are chaotic and bruising, their hands everywhere at once, like they can’t get enough of each other. By the time they manage to stumble upstairs to the bedroom, they’re already half undressed: Oliver’s shirt open and untucked, and Felicity’s dress unzipped and hanging off one shoulder.

Oliver’s hands roam over her back, heavy and warm, before plucking deftly at the clasp on her bra. She sighs as he frees her breasts and slides her dress down over her hips. As soon as it hits the floor, she surges toward him and shoves his shirt off his shoulders, pressing herself into him, desperate for more contact.

She needs him so much it’s like a physical pain. An ache so deep it makes her eyes sting. His name is on her tongue, but she can’t form the word around the burning at the back of her throat.

And then Oliver’s hands are cupping her face, strong and steady, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones as his lips soothe away her tears. “Shhh,” he murmurs, peppering her face with gentling kisses. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

They don’t. But at least they’ve still got tonight.

She sinks into his arms, and tries not to think about tomorrow.

***

Early Sunday morning, Felicity opens her eyes to the sight of Oliver’s phone hovering in front of her face. “What are you doing?” she mumbles, batting it away. She’s a little hungover from the wrap party, it turns out. Probably should have had more water before she and Oliver fell into bed last night.

He smiles at her. “Taking a picture so I can remember how you look first thing in the morning.” He’s already dressed in jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap—the official low-key celebrity travel outfit.

“Ugh, why?” Felicity groans, running her hands through her tangled hair.

“Because it’s my favorite sight, and I’m going to miss it for the next three and a half weeks.”

She feels a fresh pang of sorrow at the prospect of their separation, and rolls toward him, making grabby hands. “C’mere.”

Oliver leans over and indulges her with a kiss before he goes back to packing his bags.

Felicity retrieves her glasses from his nightstand and pushes them on. She offered to take him to the airport, but he has to turn in his Audi, so there’s not much point. Besides, Oliver said, there might be paparazzi at the airport. Better they say their goodbyes at home in private.

She gets up and gets dressed, then sits on the edge of the bed uselessly while he moves around the room, stuffing the last of his belongings into his suitcases: his toothbrush, his phone charger, his flip-flops. There’s a cleaning service coming to the house tomorrow; he already told her to help herself to anything she wants in his pantry or his fridge before then.

When he’s done, she follows him downstairs and stands around while he goes from room to room double-checking things and carrying his bags out to the car.

Too soon, he’s all packed up and it’s time for him to leave for the airport.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says, pulling her into a hug and pressing his face into the top of her head.

Felicity holds on tight and nods into his chest.

His arms clench around her, hard enough to make her ribs ache. “It’s only three weeks.”

“Three and a half,” she mumbles.

“We’re gonna be fine.” He lifts her chin and kisses her, slowly and intently.

It’s over before she’s ready, and then he’s walking away and getting into the car. Felicity stands just inside the doorway, waving as he backs the car out and drives away.

She doesn’t cry. Not when his car turns out of sight, or even when she goes back inside his empty house to gather up her things. She feels pretty proud of herself for that.

She does spend the rest of the day on her couch, feeling sad and trying to cheer herself up by binging “30 Rock” on Netflix.

 _Miss u already_ , Oliver texts her from the plane.

She sends him back a string of sadface emojis.

“My house feels weird,” he tells her when he calls that night. “Emptier than it did before.”

Felicity knows the feeling. Her little rental house feels barren without Oliver right next door. Her heart feels barren, too.

“I don’t even know where you live in LA,” she says.

“Laurel Canyon. What about you?”

“Culver City.”

“That’s not too far. When I get back from Tokyo on the 26th, I’ll make you dinner at my place.”

“You’ll be too jet-lagged.”

“I’ll sleep on the plane.”

“You won’t have any food in your house.”

“I’ll go to the grocery store.”

“On your first night home?”

“For you, I will.”

“All right, then,” she says, smiling. “It’s a date.” Their second real date. And only twenty-five days away.

She tries to picture their life together in LA. Driving back and forth from her apartment to his house in the hills. Shopping together at Trader Joe’s. Going out to restaurants. Dodging the paparazzi.

It’s hard to imagine it. It doesn’t feel like something that belongs to her life.

“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” Oliver promises her before he hangs up.

Apparently Felicity has already forgotten how to sleep alone, because she spends half the night tossing and turning in her stupid lopsided bed.

When her call time rolls around on Monday morning, she’s not ready for it. It’s hard being on set without Oliver there. Knowing that he’s two-thousand miles away in Los Angeles while she’s still stuck here working in New Orleans. That she can’t look forward to spending the night with him at the end of the day. She keeps staring at the spot where his chair used to be, missing him.

“Hey,” Iris says, stopping by to check on her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Felicity says, forcing a smile.

Iris sees through the lie, of course, and gives her a sympathetic hug.

As a thank you to the crew, Oliver arranged for Felicity’s favorite food truck to visit the set at lunch. It only makes her miss him more.

“Did you like the empanadas?” he asks that night when he calls.

“Yeah,” she tells him. “They were great. Everybody loved it.”

“I miss you,” he says. “LA sucks.”

She rolls over and hugs one of the pillows to her chest. “I miss you, too.”

He must hear the rustle of the sheets, because he says, “Are you in bed already?”

“Yeah.” It’s only 10:00, but she didn’t see any point in staying up.

“What are you wearing?”

She can’t help laughing. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly serious.” His voice is low and rough, and it sends a shiver of desire down her spine.

“What are _you_ wearing?” she asks him.

“Hang on.” She hears him fumbling with the phone for a second and then: “Not a damn thing.”

Well, okay, then.

“I’m wearing your T-shirt,” she says. “It still smells like you.”

“Nice,” he breathes. “Underwear?”

“The polka dots.” He’s intimate with all of her intimate apparel by now, so he’ll know which ones she’s talking about.

“Mmmm, my third favorites. Take them off for me.”

Jesus, they’re really doing this. She hasn’t had phone sex since high school, and she feels a little silly, but she plays along. “Okay.”

“Touch yourself for me, Felicity.” The huskiness of his voice sends goosebumps shivering over her skin, and she lets out a little moan as she presses her hand between her legs. She’s surprised to discover how aroused she is already.

“That’s it,” Oliver says, his breath coming in rough pants that don’t leave any question about what he’s doing on his end. “Let me hear you.”

“Oliver,” she sighs, her hand moving faster.

“God, I miss the taste of you,” he groans. “I wish I had my tongue inside of you right now.”

“Oh, God,” she whines.

“If I was there with you, I’d spread your legs and go down on you until you screamed,”

 _Shit._ She’s so close, past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. All she can do is gasp into the phone as she chases her release.

“Is that what you want, Felicity? You want my fingers inside you and my tongue on your clit?”

“Ol—Oliver,” she pants.

He draws a shaky breath. “ _Say it._ ”

“I want—oh, God, Oliver—ahhhh.” As she falls over the edge, she hears the telltale grunt that means he went right along with her.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing as they both come down from the high.

“You okay?” Oliver asks eventually.

“Mmmm,” Felicity sighs. “Yeah. I’m good.”

There’s a moment of quiet and then: “Felicity?” He sounds uncertain. Almost shy.

She sits up a little. “Yeah?”

“I—” She can hear his breath stutter as he hesitates. “I just really miss you.”

***

Oliver calls her again Wednesday night, just as she’s getting home from work.

“Shouldn’t you be heading to the airport?” she asks as she toes off her shoes and drops onto the couch. He’s supposed to be catching a red eye to New York in less than two hours.

“Car’s on its way, I’m just finishing up the last of my packing.”

“The car’s on its way and you haven’t finished _packing?_ ” she exclaims in horror. Just the thought of it gives her a stomach ache. She’s not leaving New Orleans for two more days and she’s already packed and repacked her bags twice. “Are you out of your mind? You shouldn’t be talking on the phone right now, you should be packing.”

He huffs out a soft laugh. “It’s fine, I’m almost done.”

She hears him pop his gum and frowns. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine, I’m just running late.”

“As usual.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

She hears a series of shuffling sounds on his end as he shoves things in his suitcase, and she wonders what his house in LA looks like. It bugs her that she doesn’t know.

“What day is your meeting about the play?” she asks, chewing on her lip.

“Monday.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Nah. It’s just a meeting. I’ve done a million of them.” She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push. She knows he hates to admit when he’s stressed and now, when he’s distracted and rushing, isn’t the best time for a heart-to-heart.

“You’ll call and let me know how it goes, right?”

“Sure—oh, shit, that’s the driver, I’ve gotta run.”

“Okay. Have a safe flight.”

“I will. Talk to you soon.”

“I miss you,” Felicity says, but he’s already hung up.

***

She gets a text from Oliver Thursday morning after he gets to New York: _The weather sux here._

 _Here too_ , Felicity texts back.

It’s her last day on set, and it’s raining.

They finish up early, and afterward she goes out to celebratory drinks with Diggle and a few of the crew members. Felicity keeps her phone close in case Oliver calls, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he sends her a selfie of himself all dressed up for his _Esquire_ shoot. They’ve got him in a dress shirt and tie with a suit vest and no jacket. His hair’s slicked back and he’s freshly shaven, but even though she misses the scruff, there’s no denying it’s a good look on him. A _really_ good look. Seeing it makes her chest ache with longing.

 _Thumbs up or thumbs down?_ the text reads.

She sends him back a whole row of thumbs-up emojis, followed by a bunch of hearteyes.

 _How was ur last day?_ he asks.

 _Not bad_ , she replies. _Short._

_R u sad?_

_A little_ , she admits _. How’s the shoot going?_

_Ok I guess. I hate these things._

_Call me when you’re done?_

_Dinner w/ Thea tonite I’ll try to call tomorrow?_

_Sure, have fun. I miss you._

_Miss u more_

Friday morning, Felicity zips up her already-packed bags, turns in her rental car, and flies home to Los Angeles.

It’s good to be back in her own apartment, in her own bed. She loves Los Angeles. She missed it here.

Part of her misses her little house in New Orleans, though. She misses coffee on the balcony, and the view of the park. She even misses the smell in her refrigerator. After nine weeks, it had started to smell like home.

Her refrigerator in LA has a smell, too, but it’s different. It used to smell like home to her, but now it doesn’t. She’ll get used to again, she supposes.

Or maybe she should just scrub out her fridge and invest in some Arm & Hammer. Refrigerators probably shouldn’t have smells, ideally.

Oliver texts her to ask if she got home okay and to tell her he’s going out that night and won’t be able to call after all.

She’s a little disappointed that she hasn’t talked to him in two days, but she figures he must be busy. He knows a lot of people in New York, and he was going to try to do some catching up and networking, plus he’s probably trying to spend as much quality time with his sister as he can. He’ll call when he has a chance.

When she goes to bed that night, she puts the strip of pictures from the photo booth on her bedside table, so it’s the last thing she sees before she turns out the light, and the first thing she sees in the morning.

Oliver texts her a couple times on Saturday, but she doesn’t hear from him at all on Sunday. The jokey meme she sends him doesn’t get a response. Neither does the good luck text she sends before his meeting Monday morning. He hasn’t posted on any of his social media accounts since he left New Orleans, but she checks them obsessively, just in case he updates again. He doesn’t.

On Monday night, when she still hasn’t heard from him, she tries calling him, but gets his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, I was just calling to see how your meeting went. Call me when you have a chance.”

He texts her the next morning.

_Sorry got busy. Meeting ok. Don’t know anything yet._

He’s just about to board his flight to Tokyo, so that’s all she gets out of him.

Over the next couple of days, they text back and forth a few times, but the time difference is a serious impediment, and they never seem to be able to connect. She hears from him less and less over the course of the week, until finally the texts stop coming altogether. Days go by. She texts him a few more times, asking if everything’s okay, tries calling and leaves a couple of voicemails, but it all goes unreturned.

After a solid week of radio silence, she can’t make excuses for him anymore.

So that’s that, apparently. What happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans.

She can’t say she didn’t have any idea it might happen. That Oliver would eventually lose interest in her. She thought she’d be ready for it, but when it actually comes down to it, she realizes that there was no being ready for something like this. Just because she was resigned to the inevitability of losing him, doesn’t make it hurt any less when she finally does.

Felicity gives herself exactly one night to cry about it. She drinks a bottle of wine, flips through all the pictures of Oliver on her phone, and sobs into the T-shirt he left her.

The next day, she picks herself up, stuffs the T-shirt in the washing machine, hides the photo strip from the wrap party in the back of a drawer, and moves on with her life.

For the next two weeks, she distracts herself by catching up with her LA friends and going out to all the restaurants she missed while she was gone. She doesn’t tell any of them about Oliver, and if they notice there’s anything wrong, they don’t comment on it.

Iris texts about getting together, but Felicity puts her off. Iris warned her about Oliver, and she’s not ready to face her yet and admit that she was right. Even though she knows Iris would never say I told you so, it would be hanging there between them, and the wound is still too raw.

Her chest hurts all the time, like something has tangled itself in knots around her heart, constricting it. But it’s not too bad, as heartaches go. She can still breathe around it, most of the time. She can live with the pain. She can go on.

It will fade with time. It always does.

And then the 26th rolls around. The day Oliver is supposed to get back from Tokyo. The night they were going to have their second date. The knots in Felicity’s chest get a little tighter, a little more difficult to breathe around. And yeah, maybe she digs the photo booth strip out of the drawer and cries over it a little—but only for a few minutes. She’s coping. She’s getting through it.

Until she gets a text from Oliver.

_Can I see u?_

She’s honestly shocked to hear from him. She figured he was done with her. That she’d be relegated to history as another girl he got bored with and stopped calling back after a few weeks.

For a good two minutes, she considers telling him fuck off. But her cheeks feel warm at the prospect of seeing him, and her heart is racing in her chest. The truth is, she’s missed him like crazy. She wants to see him again. Desperately. Even if it’s just so she can have a little closure before he drops her like yesterday’s news.

 _OK_ , she texts back.

_What’s ur address?_

She gives it to him, and then goes into the bathroom and fixes her ponytail. No way in hell is she going to dress up just to get dumped, but she can at least face him with her hair looking like it’s seen a brush sometime today.

When her ponytail is nice and neat and firmly in place, Felicity goes into the living room, sits on the couch, and waits.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on her front door.

She takes a deep breath and goes to open it.

Her heart betrays her by skipping a beat at the sight of him.

_Oliver._

Standing on her doorstep in a leather motorcycle jacket she’s never seen before. His hair’s cut shorter, almost into a buzz cut, and it makes his face seem rounder. He’s still devastatingly handsome, but he looks haggard. There are dark circles under his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders.

 _Good,_ she can’t help thinking.

He blinks at her and runs his hand over the top of his head, like he’s not used to his hair yet, either.

“You’re here,” she says when he doesn’t say anything.

He nods uneasily, as if he’s not sure what kind of reception to expect.

Felicity’s not sure what kind of reception she’s going to give him, so that makes two of them. Her hand hovers at the base of her throat, twisting the strings on her hoodie as they regard one another other.

“Do you want to come in?” she says finally.

“If that’s okay.”

She steps back, and Oliver walks into her apartment. It’s his first time seeing where she lives, but he doesn’t look around. He’s only got eyes for her. “I missed you,” he says quietly.

She can’t help the bitterness that creeps into her voice when she says, “Did you?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, hanging his head a little.

“For what?” she asks coldly.

“For letting you think I didn’t miss you.”

She crosses her arms across her chest. “Then why did you?”

He stares down at the floor, shifting his weight. “I had a bad few weeks.”

“You could have called and told me about it.”

“I didn’t want to whine at you.”

“So you thought it’d be better to let me think you didn’t like me anymore?”

His expression turns pained. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.”

“What happened?” she asks, suddenly afraid that his version of bad few weeks means a lapse back into drugs and alcohol. “You didn’t—”

“Fall off the wagon? No, but thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says resentfully, which she doesn’t feel like she deserves.

“Then what?” she shoots back at him.

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw.

“Was there someone else?” she asks, giving voice to the fear that’s been haunting her ever since he stopped calling. That he traded her in for someone new as soon as he got the chance. Someone more his type—more in his league.

He actually manages to look horrified. “God, Felicity, _no_. There’s no one but you.”

“ _How am I supposed to know that?_ ” She takes some satisfaction in the way he flinches.

“There was a lot going on. I wanted to call you but … things just started piling up on me and I got buried under it.”

“Like what, Oliver? What happened that you couldn’t talk to me for almost three weeks?”

He stares down at the floor, grimacing. “I had a really bad meeting with my agent. And then I had a fight with Thea. I didn’t get the play. I hated Tokyo. The director was a dick, and the commercial was a piece of crap.”

“That does all sound pretty sucky,” Felicity admits, not entirely without sympathy. She’s been so busy feeling rejected and convincing herself Oliver had replaced her, that she never considered what else might have been going on.

It’s not like avoidance is new behavior for him. He’s never been the world’s greatest communicator, and he’s got a maddening tendency to shut down when things get difficult. She knew all of this about him, but she foolishly assumed they’d moved past it. She thought he’d turn to her if he was having a hard time, and it hurts that he didn’t.

Oliver takes a ragged breath and blows it out slowly. “I’ve been kind of a mess. Mostly because …” He finally looks up at her, and his eyes are shining and so vulnerable it makes her breath catch. “I didn’t know how to get through my days without you.”

Felicity feels some of the knots around her heart start to loosen, and she doesn’t know if that makes her weak or a sucker. She’s not sure that she cares if it does.

“I fucked up,” he says, taking a stuttering step toward her. “I’m sorry.” He starts to reach for her and then thinks better of it, his hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. “Please just give me another chance, Felicity. _Please._ ” He sounds destroyed, and it’s enough to melt the last of her resolve.

She nods, and he falls into her arms, wrapping her up her tight.

God, she missed this so much. She missed _him_.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters into her hair. “You don’t even know.”

Her hands roam across his shoulders and then over his head, getting used to the spiky, velvety feel of his shorter hair. He smells the same, only better, because of the leather jacket.

“I thought—” She stops, blinking hard. “I thought you’d lost interest in me.”

“I didn’t,” he says miserably. “I couldn’t.”

“Then why did you stop calling? Why didn’t you answer my texts? I don’t understand why you couldn’t just talk to me.”

His arms tighten around her, and she feels his chest hitch. “I didn’t want you to know how bad things were going. I felt like such a fucking failure, and I didn’t want you to see me that way, too.”

“Okay, but, you know that’s stupid, right?”

He huffs out a soft laugh against her neck. “I do, actually, but I guess I’ve still got some work to do.”

“Clearly,” she agrees. “What happened with your sister?”

He draws in a breath, and his shoulders stiffen against her. “I found out she’s been getting high. It’s just weed for now, but I didn’t handle it very well, and she wasn’t in the mood to be lectured by her addict brother.”

“I’m so sorry.” Felicity rubs her hands over his back, trying to tease out some of the tension.

He nuzzles his face against her shoulder, sighing. “And then I found out they weren’t even considering me for the play. They only agreed to the meeting as a favor to my agent. I spent a week prepping for it and it was over in five minutes.”

“Oh, Oliver.”

“The thing is, I didn’t even want it, because I didn’t want to be away from you for that long—I’d already decided I was going to turn it down—but it was humiliating to find out I wasn’t even in the running.”

Felicity holds him even tighter, swallowing around the lump in the back of her throat. She had no idea he was planning to turn the play down for her. If only he’d _told_ her that.

“And then I got to Tokyo, and everything was a disaster there, too. The commercial was an embarrassment—taking that job turned out to be a huge mistake. It felt like I couldn’t do anything right anymore. I kept telling myself I’d call you as soon as things got better, but everything just kept getting worse. And then so much time had passed that I knew you’d be mad, and I couldn’t face it. I wasn’t sure you’d even want me anymore.”

Felicity pulls back, not all the way out of his arms, but far enough that she can look him in the eye. “I wasn’t mad, Oliver, I was hurt.”

He nods slowly, shouldering that. “I never meant to hurt you, I just—I was a mess. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Tell me the truth. How bad was it?”

His eyes are somber and sincere when they meet hers. “I didn’t use, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you thought about it.” They’ve never talked seriously about his addiction before, so this is uncharted territory for her.

His jaw tightens. “I think about it every single day. But that’s not a mistake I’m going to make again, no matter what happens. I don’t want you to think I’m going to go back to using every time I get depressed or we have a fight.”

She’s going to worry about him anyway, there’s no getting around that, but his determination is reassuring.

He’s watching her intently, trying to gauge her reaction, so she gives him a small smile and presses her palm against his cheek. “You can’t shut me out when things start to get hard,” she says, because apparently this is something he needs to be told. “You have to _talk_ to me. I’m not just here for the good times, okay?”

His fingers dig into her waist as he nods again, swallowing thickly.

“And I need you to be here for me, too.”

He bends down and kisses her softly—carefully—on the lips. “I will be,” he promises. “From now on.”

“I mean it,” she says, blinking back tears. “You can’t just disappear on me like that. It hurts too much. I can’t take it.”

He hugs her close and kisses her forehead. “I won’t. I swear. Never again.”

She wants to believe him, but she knows there are no guarantees. There is nothing he can say to prove it, no words powerful enough to serve as collateral against future mistakes. There is only trust. And hope.

What she does believe is that it’s a promise he _wants_ to keep. And that’s good enough for now. They’ve both got a long way to go if they’re going to get this right, but as long as he’s willing to put in the work, so is she.

Felicity rises up on her toes and kisses him. Not softly or carefully, but fiercely, with all the longing she’s felt since he left. Oliver kisses her back with equal urgency, his mouth opening to hers as his hands tangle in her ponytail, dragging her head back for a deeper angle. Warmth floods her body and she presses into him, desperate for more. She wants to feel him everywhere, _needs_ him everywhere. He sighs into her mouth, and then his arms tighten around her and he lifts her off the floor, spinning her around.

She lets out a startled squeal, and Oliver sets her down again, both of them laughing and gasping for breath.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He reaches up to trace her lips with his thumb, and she feels her heart flutter, unrestrained, for the first time in weeks. “I missed your smile. I missed trying to make you smile.”

“I missed your face.” She runs her fingernails through his stubble. “And your beard.”

His hand curls around the back of her neck and he pulls her in for another kiss. “I missed this,” he murmurs against her lips.

Felicity shudders with pleasure as he leaves a trail of tiny kisses from her mouth to her ear. His lips skim down to her throat, and she feels him smile against her pulse point before his teeth gently nip at the sensitive skin, making her wriggle against him.

One of his hands slips under her hoodie, searching for bare skin, and she moans when he finally finds it. “I missed touching you,” he breathes, spreading his fingers out over her back and pulling her flush against him. And then his breath is tickling her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe. “I missed the taste of you,” he says in a low, throaty voice, and Felicity loses all higher brain function.

“Oliver,” she groans, clinging to him. Her legs are in very imminent danger of giving out on her, and she’s thrumming with desire, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

“Felicity,” he says, cupping her face tenderly in his hand. His eyes are dark and intense, and as blue as she’s ever seen them. “Do you want to show me your bedroom?”

Oh, yes, she does. She definitely, definitely does.

***

“I love you,” Oliver tells her later. Not while they’re having sex, but after, when he’s holding her in his arms.

The words hang in the air between them, stealing all the breath from Felicity’s lungs.

“I should have told you sooner,” he says, pressing a kiss into the top of her head. “I should have told you before I left New Orleans and every day while we were apart.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows around the burning in her throat. “Oliver—”

“You don’t have to say it back, that’s not why I’m telling you. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know how important you are to me.”

She does feel the same way, though. She’s loved him for a long time, if she’s honest with herself. She’s just been too afraid to acknowledge it. She’s kept her feelings locked up in a tiny box, and buried the box at the bottom of her heart, where no one could find it or even know it existed.

But Oliver loves her. He’s damaged, and closed off, and kind of infuriating sometimes, but he’s trying. He loves her even though he thinks she might not love him back.

He deserves to know how she really feels.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, letting the words wash over them like a wave, filling in all the cracks.

It’s not a dream, and it’s not a fantasy. She loves him, and he loves her back.

This is real.

This is happening.

***

Two months later, Felicity is back at work, on the set of some abysmal rom-com that will probably end up going straight On Demand. She likes the director, though, and the crew, and most of the cast, with only a couple of exceptions. It’s a good job, and she’s happy to have it.

They’re shooting on the Fox lot, which is nice. Convenient parking. Decent commissary. Not a bad commute, as Los Angeles commutes go.

She feels her phone vibrate with a new text message, and as soon as the director calls “cut” a few minutes later, she digs it out of her pocket to see who it’s from.

It’s Oliver, of course.

_U want takeout tonite?_

He’s shooting another movie, just a few miles away at Sony. He got the role because Kellan Lutz dropped out at the eleventh hour and Oliver was both available to step in at the last minute and willing to do it for cheap. It’s not a big part, but it’s a major studio production, a chance to show the world what the new improved Oliver Queen can do. It’s a job, and he’s grateful to have it.

 _Sure, whatever’s fine,_ she texts him back.

They were outed by the paparazzi a few weeks ago. Some creep with a camera spotted them coming out of a Mexican restaurant in Studio City. For twenty-four hours, pictures of the two of them walking across a parking lot carrying their leftovers in styrofoam to-go boxes featured at the top of every gossip site on the internet.

Until Taylor Swift obligingly and very publicly started “dating” Tom Hiddleston. After that, has-been Oliver Queen and his nobody girlfriend were promptly forgotten. (Felicity wanted to send Hiddleswift a cookie bouquet to say thanks, but Oliver talked her out of it.)

Even though she knew better, Felicity made the mistake of reading some of the comments about her online. Predictably, most of them were along the lines that she was fat, ugly, and a gold-digging whore. When Oliver caught her doing it, he forcibly took her phone away from her for the rest of the day.

Since then, he’s been even more nurturing and protective than usual. Which is saying something.

 _Or would u rather I make mac & cheese? _he asks her.

Felicity types her answer with a smile on her face: _Your mac & cheese. Always._

_Heading home soon._

They’ve been alternating between each other’s places since he got back. Felicity loves relaxing at Oliver’s gorgeous mid-century house in Laurel Canyon on the weekends. With its swimming pool and its huge kitchen and its whirlpool tub in the master suite, it feels like vacationing at a resort. But Oliver seems to prefer Felicity’s cramped apartment for some reason, so that’s where they spend most of their weeknights.

She misses the days when they were just a doorway apart, but there’s something to be said for having Oliver’s things mingled with hers. His toothbrush and his hair product have a permanent place in her bathroom, he’s got shoes and clothes stowed in her closet, and he keeps buying pots and pans and knives for her kitchen, because, according to him, all of hers suck. They haven’t spent a single night apart since he got back from Tokyo, and even though they don’t technically live together, they’re essentially cohabitating.

Oliver keeps making noises about selling his house and looking for a new one. The way he talks about it makes it sound like something they’ll do together. Like it would be _their_ house.

It’s still just talk right now. It’s not like they’ve actually started looking or anything. He hasn’t officially asked her to move in with him yet. But she’s pretty sure he will. And when he does, she’s definitely going to say yes.

 _Still got a few hours left here_ , she tells him. _Home by 9 maybe?_

He responds with a thumbs-up emoji. And then:

_Knock knock._

_Who’s there?_ she types back, like she does every day.

_Olive._

_Olive who?_ she replies, already smiling in anticipation of the punchline.

_Olive u. <3_

**~ THE END ~**


End file.
